No blacksmiths
by ofwingsandthings
Summary: Originally my one-shot where a man and his daughter discuss Lady Arya Stark's return to Winterfell, but has since gained more and more chapters. Parts, namely the story of the Lone knight, was inspired by the story written by MarisaKateBella, called 'The Song of the Smith and the Stranger' I do believe. It's good! And I loved the idea, so I'd recommend checking it out.
1. The Lady's Return

**This is really bad don't judge me**

"Lady Arya Stark is the most fearsome warrior in all of Westeros!" The little girl on her fathers shoulders proclaimed to the forest at large, her voice ringing out against the trees, who stood silent, as if frightened to even disagree with her.

"The _most_ fearsome?" Her father asked with a chuckle, bouncing her slightly as they went on their daily walk through the glen, laughing as she let out a shriek.

"Yes!" She all but cried, brandishing her wooden sword he had crafted for her after hours and hours of carefully calculated begging.

"You might want to rethink that one, sweetling," her father laughed as they neared the edge of the forest. "Haven't you learned of all the great warriors of the seven kingdoms? What of Stannis Baratheon, or Brienne of Tarth? Surely they deserve some consideration."

"I think not," the little girl said haughtily, and though he could not see her from her perch on his shoulders, he knew she was closing her eyes and shaking her head, her nose pointed at the sky. "None of them could best Lady Arya Stark. They say she is so quick and fierce, that she is almost like a direwolf, that she can run on the wind and that even the most horrifying creatures fear her name!"

Her father laughed as they broke through the trees, entering a meadow cracked with frost and lightly dusted with the snow of winter. It was a warm day to be sure, but they were both bundled up, the chill air biting at their exposed cheeks as they made their way through the crisp afternoon air.

"I believe that," he said, "especially when she is displeased. Even the Gods quake in their seats when they see her nostrils flare!"

"Now you're teasing me," the little girl said as her father's laughter sang out over the meadow.

"Never," he said, his deep laughs causing her to shake on his shoulders as he bounced her again.

"You can tease me all you like but you know it's true," the little girl said in a factual tone.

"If you say so, my dear," he teased, giving her leg a squeeze as they neared the farm, Winterfell just barely visible over the tops of the trees of the forest.

"Look! Look! It's Lawna!"

As they walked closer and closer to the farm, two little children, a boy and a girl, ran out into the yard, pointing and dancing. The man's daughter waved her hands enthusiastically, calling out to them as well. With all the commotion, a man came out of the farm's cottage too, and, smiling when he saw who it was, waved.

"You are early!" He called to the man, but before he could explain, his daughter cried out.

"Lady Stark is returning to Winterfell!"

"Ahh of course!" The farmer said as they came to a stop just outside the yard. "How could I have forgotten?"

"She wouldn't have us leave the usual time," the girl's father said, laughing. "She insisted on leaving early so that we would get back in plenty of time."

"Come and play with us Lawna!" The farmers children begged, running to the farm gates and climbing up on them, begging her to come and join them.

"I can't!" Lawna said in a haughty voice. "I don't want to be late."

"You won't be late," her father said, reaching up and grabbing her at the waist, hoisting her up and then setting her down. "Besides, you know how Lady Sansa is with us smallfolk, she doesn't like us crowding the ceremonies."

The girl shrugged and ran over to her friends, clamoring over the fence to join them in the yard, waving her wooden sword. Her face walked over and leaned on the gate, watching her play alongside the farmers children.

"She's been like this for weeks," the man sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You can't imagine what hour she woke me this morning. I swear I saw the dead walk."

"I can," the farmer said with a laugh, "because it was probably the hour I wake everyday."

Lawna's father sighed, but he smiled non the less.

"Still," the farmer said as they watched their children play, "I can see what you speak of."

As he said this, an argument broke out between all the children.

"Stop it Ruben!" Lawna shouted, looking cross. "I already told you, I will be Lady Stark, and you will be bad King Joffrey-"

"I don't want to be bad King Joffrey!" the farmer's boy protested. "He dies all the time! I want to be someone who lives! I'm tired of always playing the villain! I want to be the blacksmith."

Lawna's nose curled with annoyance.

"No!" She snapped. "This isn't a romance! This is a fighting game!"

"Then I want to be King Robb!"

"But King Robb dies too," Lawna said as though it were obvious. "I thought you were tired of dying?"

"Fine! Then if he dies, I want to be the blacksmith!"

"No!" Lawna shouted, stomping her foot.

"What is the matter girl?" The farmer asked, giving Lawna and skeptical look. "Do you not like the blacksmith?"

"He's all right," the little girl said, and both men roared with laughter. She grinned, looking pleased with herself.

"Then can I be the blacksmith? I always have to be the worst-"

"No! No blacksmiths!"

"All right," Lawna's father said quickly, opening the gate and coming in to stop the argument, "I think it's time we were heading back to Winterfell."

Lawna frowned with disappointment, but he knew she would not argue with him, not when she was so anxious to see Lady Stark's very eagerly anticipated arrival. Resigned, she nodded, throwing her playmates an apologetic look.

"Good day to you," her father said to the farmer, hoisting her up onto his shoulders again like she was no heavier than a sack of potatoes (truth be told, she was probably lighter). "Children."

And with that the two were off, bound for Winterfell, the sun on their backs as though desperate to warm them despite the freezing air. The farmer and his children called out their goodbyes behind them, but with her father's quick strides, their voices were soon lost to the wind, their faces but a speck in the distance.

It wasn't a long walk back to Winterfell, but Lawna could sense her fathers urgency that they might not get there on time, no matter how carefully they had planned. As they approached, they could see the banners flying, and there seemed to be more activity than usual outside the gates.

To confirm her suspicions, her father picked up his already brisk pace, nearly running towards the gates, as though frightened that they would be locked out. As it was, they were not, but their fears were confirmed. Lady Arya Stark had already arrived.

They couldn't see her in the hubbub of riders and horses that were crowded around the gates, but Lawna recognized her horse at once, and the line of Stark's all standing in a formal row was enough to prove it.

Despite the chaos of her arrival, it became rapidly apparent that the whole affair had been proper and hushed before the arrival of the little girl and her father, and, when they broke through the horses and riders, there was a sharpening in the air of permanent disapproval, radiating, of course, from Lady Sansa.

The girl's father dared not look at her, but he was no coward, and when he met her gaze, he did not shrink back in fear. It was a great accomplishment, to be sure, because the look Lady Sansa was giving him was nothing short of murderous. And it was not the usual malice either, there was real fury behind her usually pretty eyes, and he couldn't help but think that his late arrival had nothing to do with it.

"Gendry!"

Before he could even contemplate the source of Lady Sansa's anger, he was whipping around, looking out at the voice he knew all too well, calling his name.

She was as bedraggled as ever, heavily cloaked, with mud half way up her boots, but it was her face he was looking at, framed by wild hair, all flushed from the ride and beaming at him. It was as if every insecurity, every dreadful fear that she might not come back, or perhaps had finally grown tired of him, was washed away by the look on her face as she rushed towards him, grinning from ear to ear.

Lady Sansa's furious hiss was cut off by her sister, Lady Arya Stark, barreling him into a fierce hug, nearly sending the girl on his shoulders flying. He had to stumble to regain his footing, but it did not matter. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her back, and then his eyes shot open. He suddenly realized why Lady Sansa was so angry.

"Seven hells Arya!" He said before he could stop himself as he pulled away, eyes wide, to see if it was really true. If she was really pregnant. Again.

She gave him a sheepish shrug while Lawna gasped, and then let out a repressed squeal, clutching her father's head in her excitement.

"Arya!" Lady Sansa's voice barked from across the yard. Arya sighed, giving Gendry an apologetic look and rolled her eyes.

"Keep your hair on, I'm only saying hello!" She called over her shoulder, and Gendry could see Lady Sansa bristling, her face turning about as red as her hair.

"I'll try to sneak out if I can, tonight," Arya said to him in a low voice, smiling up at Lawna, who was no doubt beaming down at her, "to see you at the forge."

And with that, she took his hand and gave it a quick squeeze, giving Lawna one last smile before turning and walking back to her family, Lady Sansa snatching her arm and whisking her inside with a speed Gendry didn't think was possible. As the rest of the Starks followed, Gendry couldn't help but let out a low whistle. Pregnant. Again. Leave it to Arya to return with a surprise.

**I can't make up fantasy names for shit, obviously, but here's my one-shot. It's not as good as **_**Just as Friends, obviously**_**, but I suppose it'll do for now. **

**I'm going to start working on my 'research' if you will, for my other fics (I've decided to work on the two mentioned in the epilogue of 'just as friends') soon, and I'll post those as soon as possible. If any of you use tumblr (and this is not me trying to whore myself out, I just can't think of a better way to keep you all updated on my work), my url's are .com and .com (ofwingsandthings is my fandom blog, and that's where I will most likely be posting updates as to what I'm doing writing wise. Also, if you would like to ask me any questions or request one-shots for me to write to tie you guys over, I'd recommend putting them there).**

**Sorry, I'm done spamming.**


	2. Conversations in the forge

**Okay so that was going to be a one shot, but I thought I'd tag this on there as well because some of you were slightly confused as to the nature of Arya's relationship with Gendry. Hope this helps.**

The forge was dark, covered in shadows. The only light came from the last embers of the fire that Gendry kept picking at, stoking, even though the time for work was over a long time ago. He was never much for waiting, though, and even though he was exhausting his body in this way, pounding on the hot metal until his muscles turned to tar, he did not think he could stop. His mind was burning along with the coals, and it had been ever since he had seen Arya.

A few paces away, barely visible in the flickering light, was Lawna, curled into a ball on her cot, fast asleep, cradling her sword in her arms. She had been so excited to show Arya the sword, that she had insisted on staying up, far past her bed time. But soon, as the darkness bled into the light of day, and grew thick in the shadows, her eyes began to droop closed, her head falling to the cot, and her breathing turning deep and long, drifting off to sleep.

Gendry sighed, throwing another look at her. He had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders hours ago, but he still worried that she was cold. They usually slept next to each other, to keep out the cold, and usually, he would tell her a story before she fell asleep. He wasn't much for stories, and she often made fun of him for his poor delivery, but she liked the same ones, told again and again, and he found himself making the same mistakes just so she could correct them, giggling when she did.

"I knew you'd be better at it than I would," Arya had said one night, a year or so back, as they watched Lawna sleep after Arya had escaped Sansa's angry eyes.

"She loves you though," Gendry had said with a frown. "You're all she ever talks about. Lady Stark this, Lady Stark that. She loves your stories too, makes me tell them to her every night _exactly_ how you tell them."

Arya looked away, having the good grace to look slightly ashamed. Gendry didn't ask, he never asked, but the question was still there. _When are you going to come back and stay? When are you going to stop leaving?_

She had left the next day, and had been gone for what seemed like years, but, in reality, hadn't been her longest time away. And when she had come back, it was like it always was, like she never left.

And that night, when Lawna was tucked away, fast asleep and snoring, they had escaped to the loft and made love like they had their first time. Desperately, as if to imprint every touch, every caress, deep into each others skin, a mark that would never leave. And afterwards, when they had laid together, cradling each other, Gendry had been sure that this time she would not leave.

And, for a short two months, it seemed like she wouldn't. She did not make preparations for a journey, and Jon had confessed to Gendry that she had told Sansa that her visit would be a long one. In fact, she spent a ridiculous amount of time with Gendry and their daughter, listening to the stories and history that Lawna could recite better than any song.

"Jon teaches her," Gendry explained when Arya had given him a questioning look. "He has a soft spot for bastards."

At first, Sansa had been annoyed, and more than once Gendry had caught her arguing with Arya about the propriety of such behavior, but then, it would seem that her elder sisters heart melted slightly towards Arya's two bastards, and she let her younger sister spend most of her time with Gendry.

"She doesn't want me to be like I was, when I returned," Arya confessed one night as they laid together, Lawna sleeping down in the forge below them. "She's afraid of my unhappiness."

"So am I," Gendry confessed stupidly, and Arya gave him a half smile.

"Then you have nothing to fear," she said, but the statement seemed stale, and the smile didn't reach her eyes, and Gendry felt, for a moment, a stab of fear. He brushed it off as she brought her lips to his, kissing him deeply. But he should have heeded the fear.

A few days later, Arya had not visited the forge, and then three more days passed, and Lawna was asking after her, constantly. Gendry was worried too, Arya was usually not so seclusive. He had thought that perhaps it was Sansa, who had had a change of heart and kept her locked up, but even then Arya never listened to her sister.

"She's unwell," Jon said with a frown when Gendry inquired after her. "I saw her yesterday, and she thinks she might have caught a chill."

"A chill?" Gendry repeated dubiously. "She is of the North. She thrives in the cold."

But Jon had no answer for him, and he had been left questioning. And his questions were never answered, because the next day she was gone, gone without so much as a goodbye.

Lawna had wept bitterly, and Gendry had been nothing short of furious, but what was he to do? He was just a bastard blacksmith, the Brotherhood knighting him or not, and he had no control over a lady.

Now, of course, he knew why she had left. And it wasn't because of a chill, either. She hadn't been ill, she had been pregnant, and she must have known, and she had not told him. She had not told him and she had left, for five months, and now she was back, all swollen and smiling, and he wasn't sure he could smile back.

At first he had been overwhelmed with joy, and so had Lawna.

"I will have a brother," she had chirped with certainty. "And he will be so beautiful and sweet that Lady Stark will have to stay."

It had been those words that had turned his joy sour. Lawna was too young, and far too innocent to know the effect her words and certainty hurt him, for they echoed his own thoughts when Arya had been with child the first time.

_She won't leave now, _he had thought with such foolish stupidity. _Now she'll stay forever._

But he was older now, and wiser, and he knew that as soon as the babe was born and she was healthy enough to travel, she would be gone, leaving him with two bastards and only the promise of a nurse to help him raise them.

"Gendry."

He turned around to see her, dusked in moonlight, standing at the entrance of the forge, giving him a soft look. Every time she had returned in the past, she had stood there and said his name, and every time he had dropped what he was doing and had taken her in his arms and kissed her, his anger and hurt and demanding questions forgotten. But this time was different.

"You knew, didn't you?" He said, setting down his hammer. "You knew you were with child. That's why you left."

She looked taken aback, startled, but then she sighed, as though she had been expecting this.

"I needed some time to think," she said. "I wasn't sure, you see..."

"You weren't sure?" Gendry demanded, feeling anger flare up inside him. "About what?"

"About whether I wanted another child," she said in a low voice, not looking at him, but instead at Lawna.

"Well it won't be your child, will it?" Gendry snarled, feeling hateful. "Not really."

At once he could see that he had gone too far. There was a flash of deadness across her face, an emptiness that he hadn't seen in a long time, and fear pierced his heart.

"Don't act like you're the innocent here," she snapped, her expression composed and poised, but in her voice there was a hint of her true feelings. "I didn't force myself upon you. I didn't rape you. You fucked me just as much as I fucked you."

Gendry cringed at her harsh words and threw a look over at Lawna, who was, thankfully, still fast asleep.

"I never asked you to leave," he said in a low voice. "And if it was just me, I wouldn't care, but you're hurting our daughter."

The deadness that was across her face vanished, replaced with a bitter regret as she stole another look at the sleeping child.

"She doesn't even call you mother," Gendry said. "No, it's Lady Stark. Do you know why? It's because she's afraid. She's afraid if she calls you anything else, you'll leave."

"That's silly," Arya said.

"Is it?" Gendry demanded. "I don't think so. The first time I told you I loved you, you were gone."

"That was because we had a wildling problem-"

"No," Gendry cut across her angrily. "That was because you didn't love me back."

Hurt pooled in Arya's eyes, but he knew that he was right. That she hadn't loved him back, probably because she was so lost then, almost a wild thing herself.

"I didn't want to love you," she said. "You know that. I was afraid."

"And you're afraid now," he said gruffly. "Or else you would have stayed, with me and with her."

Arya looked at Lawna again.

"Jon was telling me how good you are with her," she said softly. "He says that there isn't a moment where you two aren't together."

"She still needs her mother, Arya," Gendry said, and though he tone was firm, his voice was soft.

Arya looked up at him, straight into his eyes, for a long time.

"I know," she said. "That's why I came back.


	3. Where it all began

**And then I did this. What am I doing. I need to focus.**

Arya sat staring out the window at the chill, inky night, gazing up at the stars. _The sky almost looks frozen over, _she observed silently to herself, her hand absentmindedly resting on her protruding stomach.

Looking away from the night, she cast a glance at Gendry, who was fast asleep, still naked, a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He'd wake up soon enough, feeling the coldness of her loss, and demand that she come back to bed. He could be protective, but, as Arya remembered, when she was with child he was like a wolf guarding its mate from any potential harm. The thought of Gendry the wolf made her smile, but she supposed that he was more bull than anything else. Stubborn.

She let out a sigh and looked back out over the sky, trying not to think of what a mess it all was. Trying to resist the call of the open unknown. It had been easy at first, leaping to her feet every time the winds called, singing of adventure. Mostly, though, she ran to lose herself. It was so much easier riding like a shot through the forests and over the hills, keeping the peace, than staying at home to help rebuild Winterfell. She didn't have to be anyone, answer to anyone. She didn't have to be reminded of who she was, or the terrible pain she had endured, or what she lost.

But now she could no longer run.

When she realized that she was with child again, she had felt trapped. A horrible, choking feeling had consumed her as it all rushed in. She would have to stay. She would have to have the child. Gendry wouldn't let her run away again. She would never be free again. She would only be Lady Stark, constantly reminded of what Arya had lost. Of the things Arya had seen. Every shadow in Winterfell was a ghost.

She was being selfish, she knew. And once she rationalized with herself, and got her head right, she knew that all those things she thought were silly. Gendry loved her, Sansa loved her, as did Jon and Bran and Rickon. And Lawna was a wonderful child, who, it would seem, had taken after Arya in her love for all things unladylike. So what was she so desperately afraid of?

_Love makes you weak, _said a tiny little voice in her head. _And this is a bad place, remember? This is the place where everything is taken from you._

She turned to look at Gendry again, who looked endearingly foolish in his sleep, his mouth hanging slightly open, a light stubble dusting his face. She remembered, nearly blushing to think so, of how it had all started. Of her return, and then some time after it, when she stopped tasting blood in her mouth and started to feel again. And how she had felt towards him.

They had been friends as children, but, now that she was older, sixteen at the time, she was a woman grown. Ready for marriage, Sansa had pointed out once in passing, if anyone would have her. Arya doubted they would. Lady or no lady, she was no maiden, but not far from that, in truth. Still, it didn't matter if she was inexperienced. A ruined girl was a ruined girl, and Arya had no problem being ruined. She never wanted to marry anyway.

But it had been a long time since she had felt a man's touch, though she had never wanted a man, at least, not with the desire or the feeling that she did Gendry. In Braavos, she had briefly taken a lover, but she had felt nothing from it, and had dismissed him. But, upon her return, the blacksmith had caught her eye in a way no man had ever before.

_It's probably because of our history together, _she had tried to reason with herself. _He's the first boy you ever took notice of, even if it was only a little. _

But... All the same, she found herself caught, more than once in his presence. Sometimes, they would sneak out for a walk, and Sansa would let them go because she liked seeing a flush in Arya's cheeks again. Most times, Arya would come back feeling a flicker of happiness within her from teasing him, but sometimes there were moments of danger. When, for a fleeting second, she would stop, her breath catching in her throat, and she would see him a way she really ought not to be seeing him.

Sometimes the light would catch his eyelashes, adorning his bright blue eyes in gold, and she would feel her heart cease to beat, and then, he would turn and say something stupid, and she would be left to laugh, feeling shaken and confused, and, most of all, angry. She made a promise to herself that, whenever she would have these moments of foolishness, that she would run and escape them, and it worked. After running so far, she could return and feel none of the foolish awkwardness that she had felt before. She could only be glad to see him again, and teach him how to spar with a sword, and tease him because he was so clumsy with it.

She could escape it, but only for a time. Soon she would be at it again, and the feeling was so sneaky too, always cropping up at the worst of times. When she went to visit him at the forge, and caught him without a shirt, a thing that she would at one time pay no mind to, but now left her staring. Or when their hands brushed, passing a weapon from one to the other.

But it had all came to a head, really, when she had caught him talking to a whore.

He had been doing nothing wrong, in truth, because they had made no promises to each other, or even interacted in a way that was supposed to be romantic, but it had felt like a betrayal. She had come back from one of her rides a bit early, to catch him chatting with a blonde haired woman, her breasts barely contained in her shift, and she had known, in that instant, that that was not the first time that he and the yellow haired whore had spoken.

A blind, horrible anger had filled Arya, and she lost all sense, kicking her heels and charging the horse at the pair, nearly trampling the whore to death before Gendry threw her out of the way. Arya was deaf to his roars as she rode away, towards the stables, hell at her heels and blood in her mouth.

Hatred filled her until she choked, and she leapt from the horse and stormed from the stable. The only thing to quench her burning thirst was blood, and as it was, there was nothing to kill. Except that whore and Gendry, but she was not about to slit his throat. No amount of anger could do that.

Instead she settled for a nice goat, one that could be eaten for dinner that night. She was just setting to skin it when she heard the sound of heavy footfalls behind her, and didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

"You could have killed her!"

She turned around placidly and gave Gendry a cold look.

"It's a right shame I didn't," she snapped, feeling a rush of vindictive satisfaction at the look on his face. "I thought you knew better, being a bastard yourself. I thought you wouldn't want to bring another one into the world just to satisfy your needs."

Gendry didn't say anything, but there were sparks in his eyes like the ones that burned when he made the steel sing.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded. "You have no right to be angry. I've made no promises to you."

Arya stabbed the goats flesh, hard.

"No," she snarled. "That's right. How stupid of me. Why would I ever want promises from a bastard?"

There was a sound of Gendry gasping, a low, shocked gasp, and she turned, in spite of herself and then cringed when she saw the look on his face. He was so hurt, and confused, and he didn't understand at all. _How could he be so stupid?_ She thought. _How could he not see?_ But that was unfair, because, until this moment, she hadn't even seen herself.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

But it was too late. He was already gone.

She had tried to apologize to him, but, even though he accepted her apology, she knew that he didn't. Not really. The look he gave her was cold, and the usually teasing glint in his eyes was gone.

She had left, rode the farthest and longest she had ever ridden, but he would not escape her. Even when she kicked her heels and forced her horse to run as fast as it could, so that the wind whipped her face violently and the world turned into a blur of frantic colors, the look in Gendry's eyes after she had called him a bastard haunted her, refusing to go away.

She had no other choice but to turn around and ride back for Winterfell. Unfortunately, if Arya had learned anything from her return to Westeros, it was that ghosts had away of refusing to go away until you confronted them straight out. And Arya Stark was no coward.

He did not come out to greet her, or even linger on the sidelines, watching from afar. She tried to go to the forge straight out, to confront him, but Sansa would have none of it.

"We are having a feast," she snarled. "In your honor. You've been gone nearly a year, Arya. The blacksmith can wait."

"He has a name," Arya had snapped back, "and it's Gendry. We didn't part well, and I want to make it right."

"Make it right after the feast," Sansa had commanded with a tone of such severe finality that Arya had no choice but to agree.

As the evening wore on, Arya couldn't help but feel a rotting dread within her. A good amount of wine would have stopped that in a beat, but Sansa, it appeared, was going through a bit of a protective streak, and as a result, every time Arya reached for more wine, the jug mysteriously disappeared, trotting down the tables happily in the hands of a cup barer. So, unfortunately for Arya, when she made her way down to the forge, it was entirely sober.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," he said gruffly, not even bothering to turn around as he worked the metal, his blows especially vicious. "Here to apologize again?"

"Yes," she said, her mouth turning to cotton. She wasn't very good at this, making things right, talking about feelings. It was much better to settle things with a sword than with words.

"I don't see why," Gendry said, slamming his hammer down and sending sparks flying. "I said I forgave you."

"Yes, you said," Arya snapped, "but you didn't mean it, which is the more important part, I should think."

He didn't respond, but instead pounded away, leaving her to fill in the gaping silence.

"I let my temper get the better of me," she said, picking her words with care. "What I did, and the things I said... I only said them because... Because I was angry."

What she had meant to say was '_because I wanted to hurt you just as much as you hurt me_' but somehow the words sounded foolish and cowardly in her head, and she could not bring herself to say them aloud.

"I don't see why," Gendry said again, through what sounded like gritted teeth, "like I said before, I made no promise-"

"I don't want your promises, damn you!" Arya snapped, the fiery feeling of anger beginning to kindle within her. "I just don't want you talking to that whore!"

"You don't want me talking to that whore?" Gendry repeated, putting the hot metal in water, steam hissing from it. "That sounds like wanting promises to me."

Arya growled, feeling her temper licking at her again, ready to flare. He really was insufferable.

"Well," she said frostily, "obviously you'd rather spend your time between some yellow-haired girls legs than with me-"

"Why can't you just come out and say it?" Gendry demanded, throwing down his tools and turning around at last.

Arya blinked, completely thrown.

"Say what?" she said stupidly, but Gendry, though simple, was not a fool.

"Don't be coy," he snarled. "You know what I'm talking about."

She took a deep, shuttering breath, and suddenly found herself speechless. She couldn't find the words to fit what she wanted to say, probably because she didn't know what she wanted to say herself. But it seemed like she didn't need to find words, because they were building up in the back of her throat and tumbling out before she could stop them.

"I lost everything," she heard herself say softly. "I don't want to loose you too."

Gendry's eyes widened, and then he seemed to melt, his entire body, tensed in an angry, cold stance, sighing. The hostile and threatening look on his face slid away, and he let out a long, slow breath.

"I'm sorry," he said unexpectedly. "I didn't think you cared, or would care."

"No," Arya said meekly. "I can see where you wouldn't. I haven't been exactly forth coming."

"No," Gendry agreed gently. "That you haven't."

They stood there, awkwardly for a moment, and Arya began to wonder, almost frantically, what she should do. It was so difficult, in these moments of emotion, to know what to do or say, when it should be so obvious. She just stood there, like a stone, feeling closed off and confused, unsure of what to do, or what she wanted to do.

But she didn't have to do anything, because suddenly Gendry was there, and his arms were wrapping themselves around her, and he was holding her. Her bones went rigid, and she gave a sharp intake of breath, surprised and still unsure, but then, closing her eyes, she let herself go, and found that she was embracing him as well.

He was warm, and smelled of warmth too. A perfume of burnt embers and scorching metal, of dust and straw and dirt, all mixed together with smoke. At first, her nose curled at the strength of the scent, but then she realized that she rather liked it. It reminded her of him, of his youth, the picture of him working the metal floating into her mind.

_He's still strong, _she thought absently, her head against his breast, listening to his wildly beating heart, the strength in his body wrapped around her like some sort of rope or string, and yet... And yet she didn't feel trapped at all.

"You were gone so long," he said into her hair, the rumbles of his voice pulsing in her ear along with his heartbeat.

"I know," she said.

"I was afraid I'd forget your face," he admitted.

"I never forgot yours."

She had not meant it to be romantic in the least. It had been the truth. In fact, it wasn't romantic at all. Her guilt had haunted her like a ghost in the night, screeching at her to make it right with him. She would have told him so too, if he hadn't taken it as a romantic gesture, and suddenly pressed his lips against hers.

Arya felt herself freeze again, seizing up, unsure of what to do. She could only think of how cold her lips felt, when his were hot and warm, and how her entire body felt as rigid as ice, but his was like burning water. But, though ice swallowed fire, fire melted ice, and she found herself kindling to his heat, feeling it rush through her cold skin and inflame it, her hands running up around his neck, her mouth opening against his, as if to gulp his fire and passion. To drink it in like a dying man quenched with thirst.

This was strange, she thought to herself, to feel so full of fire when it was so cold outside. But within the forge there was only warmth, a hot, suddenly uncomfortable warmth, and Arya could feel her cheeks flushing along with her body, her skin itching for a spell of cold air.

Her hands flew to the ties on his shirt, knitting and twisting them until they came undone, and then she pushed the cloth away, dusking the tips of her fingers over his hot, fevered flesh, drinking him in. She had seen him like this before, even with less clothing on, truth be told, but she was a child then, and his body at the time had been of no consequence. Now, however, it was an entirely different affair.

Before she could do much more, he took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply. It was different than their other kisses, Arya could feel it, in his lips and hands. This was a kiss of want, but a different kind. Not just of her flesh, but of her entire being. _He cares far more for me than he let on_, she thought foggily.

But the time for thinking was being taken over by much more urgent matters, and she blindly pushed whatever Gendry might be feeling, other than lust, out of the way. The unpleasant, over-heated feeling was still there, crawling under her skin, and she was tired of it. Pushing Gendry's lips from hers, she reached down to her bodice and began to undo the laces of her dress.

Gendry threw a frantic look at the entrance of the forge. No one was there, there was only darkness.

"A-Arya?"

She laughed, in spite of herself.

"I've never heard you to sound like such a frightened little boy," she said, coming towards him, unlacing each lace with every step. "Not even with a knife at your throat."

"A knife would be swifter," Gendry said in cracked voice. "I cannot imagine Sansa's wrath when she finds out I've ruined you."

Arya laughed.

"You'll not ruin me," she said, setting to the laces of her small cloths, the front of her dress hanging loosely from her body.

"Then you'd better stop that," Gendry said, and when Arya looked into his eyes, they were not their usual blue, but dark with want. She grinned.

"You cannot ruin me," she said slowly, now so close to him that she could feel the heat from his body, "because I am already ruined."

Gendry's eyes snapped wide open and he looked at her, as if searching her face for a jest. There was no jest, of course, and not to her surprise, an angry expression flickered across his face.

"Who was it?" He demanded. "Rapers?"

"No," Arya admitted. "Not rapers."

There was a long silence, and for a moment she was frightened that he would demand she lace up her clothes and leave the forge at once, but he did not do that. Instead he sighed, a look that was almost sad passing over his face.

"Does Sansa know?" he asked, and she shook her head.

"I think she suspects," Arya sighed, "but I don't really think she wants to know."

Gendry nodded in understanding.

"I suppose you want me to lace up my dress now," she said, and she had meant it as a bit of a joke, but her voice had come out hard and biting.

"No," Gendry said, and she saw in his eyes and in the shift of his pants that he did not. "That doesn't mean I don't _think_ you should."

"Good," Arya said, taking his hand and placing it on the crook of her collar bone, leaning up to gently take his lips in hers. "I never gave much thought to what you think anyway."

Gendry made a noise like he was going to protest, perhaps throw in an insult of his own, but that was stopped swiftly and replaced with a gasp as she pulled her body upwards to meet his, his hand cascading down to her breast, their forms pressed together as one shadow in the flickering light.

She felt the rough skin of his hands push aside the thin cloth covering her chest, and then move inside it, cupping and squeezing her breasts until she moaned in his mouth, her entire skin aflame with what felt like liquid fire.

She pressed against him again.

His hands removed themselves from her breasts up to her shoulders, and she felt a whoosh of cold air as he pushed her clothing from her, her small cloths still clinging to her hips, her skin as bare as the day she was born.

Before she could cover herself, or even move, she felt his arms around her, and his lips against her throat, carrying her gently to his bed, and then spilling her in it, so that she stared up at him, leaning over her, his face glowing in the fading light of the embers, standing out against the blackness of night around him.

With haste, he undid the laces of his trousers, and she watched as he got up and quickly shimmied out of them, turning to her, a slight heat in his cheeks. He was strong. Every muscle in his body was well worked from pounding metal all day, and it felt like his whole form seemed to echo strength, from his blue stubborn eyes to the pronounced muscles in his legs, built up from all his years of travel.

Kicking his pants off into the dark, he crawled back in bed over her, his rough hands again on her skin, tugging her small cloths off so that they were both naked, staring at each other, completely breathless.

He began to kiss her again, gently, sweetly. First her lips, then her neck, then her collar bone, and then her breasts. But it was all too slow and too soft for Arya. The kisses he left were gone the instant his lips removed themselves from her skin, too easily forgotten. And she didn't want to forget anything.

She rose upward and grabbed his shoulders, crushing him to her, kissing him fiercely, passionately. She wanted every touch, every caress to be imprinted on her skin in a burning flesh memory. She did not want to wake and not remember what it was like to make love to him. Everything good was far too easily forgotten here.

He didn't seem to mind her sense of urgency, in fact, he returned it vigorously, kissing her with as much want and fever that she did him, his hands on her body firm and scorching.

They tumbled back onto the bed, and she felt him, nagging at her, and rose her hips to meet his. They coupled fiercely that night. Desperately. And it was like nothing she'd ever forget. Even now, remembering it, she could feel every touch, every sigh, as though she were there, on the bed, living it.

And after that, she knew it would never be the same. She would never be the same. And though she tried so desperately to close herself off, to escape the raw vulnerability loving something brought on, she found herself cracking more and more each day. Each return was like a knife, cutting away at the frost over her heart, weakening her.

Arya, hand still on her stomach, as if it was some sort of permanent resting place, climbed down the latter and into the forge. She turned, taking in the smell of burning coals and metal, something that she now had began to miss when she went a long time without its perfume. Finally, her eyes rested on the sleeping child, curled into a peaceful ball, three blankets around her shoulders for warmth as she cradled her sword.

_She's so fond of that sword, _Arya thought, the coldness in her heart melting slightly. _Just like I was of Needle. _

She crossed the expanse of the forge softly and slowly, each step silent. There were some things that she had learned that she could not shake, and being silent was one of them. Here, it was only helpful. The last thing she wanted to do was wake the little girl from her peaceful slumber.

She stopped just next to her and sank slowly down, not making a sound as she took in Lawna's peaceful, innocent face. It was a blank slate, not touched by war, or sorrow. Not a single scar scorched her smooth skin, nor was there a single crease of worry in her smooth little brow. Arya felt her throat seize up, Lawna's image conjuring up what she had been like when she was so young.

And yet... It was not as though her daughter had grown up untouched by unpleasant things. She was born a bastard, to a bastard, and to a lady mother who had no hope of ever marrying her father. But... Did Arya even want to marry? It seemed, to her, a silly thing. _We are more man and wife than hundreds of married people, _she had often thought to herself. There seemed no reason to her to trap themselves in such a bond.

_Gendry would hate being a lord or a knight, _she knew with certainty, and she couldn't imagine what it would be like if she forced him to be something he wasn't. Stuck in a stuffy castle all day, learning the proper ways of the court, being constantly whispered at and the object of every jest. She could just hear them, in her head, _there goes the bastard lord now, too common to even know how to run a castle. _It brought a boiling rage just to think about it, and it hadn't even happened.

_And this, _she thought, looking around the darkened forge, _he would lose this._ And that would be cruelly unfair.

She sighed, turning back to Lawna again, and her heart pinched, from what she didn't know. Was it guilt, perhaps? At leaving this child so often? At being, admittedly, glad, that she did not call her mother?

_It's better that she calls you Lady Stark, _the tiny voice said in her head again. _Lady Stark is immortal, a legend, a story. She can never die, or be taken from her. It is better this way, safer this way._

But was it? Arya looked at the little girl's form again, hugging a sword instead of her mother's hand. _That sword is more of a mother than I am_, Arya thought to herself a bit bitterly. But all the same, she could not help but feel like Lawna was luckier than she was. _At least she knows what a loss is like, _Arya thought. _At least, when something horrible comes, because something horrible always comes, she will be prepared._

The lie in her own head turned Arya's mouth sour. _I've shrouded myself in a false cloak of nobility, _she thought in disgust. She wasn't protecting her daughter, quite the opposite actually. She was protecting herself.

_What am I so afraid of?_

The question seemed to hang in the thick, cold air of the night, waiting to be answered. And, for a long time, there was no answer. Only when Arya turned to look back at the little girl did something stir deep within her.

_Her, _she thought, _I'm afraid of loosing her. I'm afraid that if I give myself to her, my heart and my soul and all my love, that she'll be taken from me, and I shall never, ever recover from it._

The thought struck her with such gravity that Arya felt a rare rush of terrible sadness take hold of her unexpectedly, and she blinked, tears beading at her eyelashes. All at once, the sadness made her want to take the little girl in her arms and beg her forgiveness. To hold her forever and never let her go.

As it was, she did none of those things.

"Arya?"

She looked up to see Gendry, having come down the ladder, dressed, a blanket around his shoulders. She must have been so lost in thought that she had not heard him.

"When I woke up and you weren't there..." he said, and she saw the lines of worry on his face, his expression torn between being relieved and annoyed.

"I thought she might be cold," Arya said, her voice cracking slightly. "I thought... That she might like it if we slept with her. To keep her warm."

Though it was dark in the forge, Arya saw Gendry's eyes soften, and he smiled.

"I think she'd like that best of all," he said, and so they laid down, the little girl, still fast asleep, between them. And just as Arya closed her eyes, ready for sleep at last, too exhausted for anything else, she felt the little girl stir, and then roll towards her. And her little hand reached out in its slumber and, ever so gently, latched itself onto Arya's.

**And I rated it M now. Look at me. I think this is it, for this one. I'm not sure, but I've started reading, and to be honest, once I get into my reading cave, it feels like pulling teeth to get myself out of it. So I might work on stuff, I might not. Mostly, though, I'm just going to read**


	4. The tale of the Lost Knight

**I really wasn't going to write this, but... I was getting sick of reading, so I decided to do a POV from Lawna's perspective. I had said that I was going to stop writing this, but, as you may or may not have noticed, I did not mark this complete, so we'll see what happens.**

Lawna awoke that morning to the sight of Lady Stark's face.

Nothing in the world could have made her more happier, and, as soon as her eyes had opened, she made sure to be perfectly still, so as not to wake or disturb her. She scarcely dared to breathe for fear that the lady would awaken, and then she would have to leave, for ladies, as her father had often told her, were really not allowed in forges.

But there she was, laying there, fast asleep, the fierce look that usually adorned her hard features gone, replaced with what looked to be almost a half smile. _She must be dreaming of the many battles she has won, _Lawna thought with wonder, _or perhaps she is dreaming of my baby brother._

What she dreamt did not matter. Only that she was there.

There was a crunching sound, and Lawna gave an involuntary jerk, looking up to see her father standing over them, smiling. Her father had a very nice smile.

"We must be quiet," she whispered earnestly. "So as not to wake Lady Stark."

"She'll wake soon enough," her father said in that gruff voice of his, leaning down to give Lady Stark a gentle look. "And if we don't wake her, Lady Sansa's wrath will."

"I don't want her to go," Lawna said, clutching Lady Stark's hand like a prayer. "I want her to stay."

"As do I, my dear," her father said with a grave gentleness, giving her arm a pat, "but, as you well know, we cannot always have what we want."

Lawna sighed sadly, looking back over at her hand entwined with Lady Stark's.

"A few more minutes, perhaps?" she asked shyly, and her father smiled.

"Lord Snow will be here soon," he said, standing. "I see no reason why Lady Stark should wake before then. After all, she has had a very long journey, and must be very tired."

"Might I stay here with her then?" Lawna pleaded, daring not to hope.

"Yes," her father said, ruffling her hair. "I see no harm in it."

Her heart was so full of happiness that she might have broken out into song, if she knew it would not wake Lady Stark.

Everything was always so much better when Lady Stark was there. Lady Sansa was always happier, and Jon Snow always walked with a spring in his step. But it was the change in her father that she liked best of all. His eyes always danced around Lady Stark, and his laughter was deep, and he told stories and jokes and never seemed to stop smiling. There were times, many times, that he grew angry with Lady Stark, and they would quarrel, and it would hurt deep within Lawna, for she knew that when the quarreling began, Lady Stark would be gone, driven away.

She would be angry with her father for making Lady Stark go, were that it did not hurt him so. Every time she left Winterfell, it was as though the winter had finally crawled under his skin, leaving him stoic and unreachable. He would often stare off into the night, or the space, and Lawna wondered if he was looking for her, wondering where she was. Lawna often wondered where she was when she wasn't with them. Perhaps she had another blacksmith, and a little girl that was infinitely better than she was.

"Don't be ridiculous," her father had said once, when she had confessed her fear to him, and it was the only time that he had ever looked truly angry.

He had fought angrily with Lady Stark upon her return, and she had left shortly after, and Lawna had known it was all her fault, and had wept bitterly for days and days. At long last, her father was finally able to console her.

"It's all my fault," she had sniffed in his arms. "If I was only better..."

"It is not your fault," her father had said fiercely. "Lady Stark loves you."

"No she doesn't," Lawna had cried, tears leaking from her eyes. "Or she would stay."

Her father's sigh seemed to be pulled from the lips of a man a thousand years old. Gently, he stroked her hair.

"When Lady Stark was a little girl," he began, "she endured terrible things. Worse than you can even imagine. And when I met her, she was a little girl who had lost her youth. And when she returned after we were separated, there was a long while that I feared that the losses she had suffered had drowned her."

"But Lady Stark is a fierce warrior," Lawna said, frowning.

"She is now," her father said gently. "But she wasn't always. She lost a good deal, and one day, when you are older, you will learn how much."

Lawna could only blink up at him, confused.

"She is afraid," her father explained. "She doesn't want to loose you too. That is why she leaves."

"Lady Stark cannot be afraid," Lawna said, frowning. "She is the bravest woman in all of Westeros."

"Did you know," her father said, turning her around to face him and balancing her on one knee, "that a great man, a man that once ruled over Winterfell many years ago, said that a person can only be brave when they're afraid?"

Lawna frowned. It didn't make sense.

But so little made sense, and her father was always telling her that when she was older, she would understand. But it was two years past that day, and she still didn't understand. She had come to the conclusion that she probably never would.

"Aha! I was wondering if I'd find her here."

Lawna was broken from her pondering to see Lord Snow towering over her, a smile on his face. His features resembled that of Lady Stark's, and so he was always a favorite in Lawna's heart.

Next to her, Lawna felt Lady Stark stirring. Her heart sank.

"Gendry," Lady Stark snapped sleepily. "You should have woken me."

"Would that I could," Lawna's father said, and there was a mischief behind his eyes, "but I fear, my lady, that not even a Lannister army could have roused you this morning."

"You're teaching him too many fine words, Jon," Lady Stark grumbled, rolling into a sitting position, her movements made harder by her round stomach. "He's starting to sound intelligent."

The grown ups laughed.

"I'd stop making quips and start running, if I were you," Lord Snow advised as Lawna's father walked towards her and helped Lady Stark to her feet. "The last time I saw her, Sansa was stabbing her breakfast and muttering curses."

"Sansa needs to enjoy her food more," Lady Stark grumbled, and then she looked over at Lawna, and Lawna felt her father reach under her arms and lift her up, swinging her about until she was dizzy and hysterical with giggles.

"I've made you miss your morning walk," Lady Stark said with a frown.

"That's quite all right," Lawna said at once, trying to sound as proper as possible. "I don't mind."

Lady Stark gave her a smile.

"You can come with us tomorrow if you like," her father said, still holding her, but now she was higher, her arms around his neck.

Lawna waited for Lady Stark's reply with baited breath.

"A morning walk would do me good," she said at last, and Lawna felt her heart sing.

It sang even louder when Lady Stark walked over to her and planted an unsure kiss on her cheek before she left. As Lawna watched her go, she turned to look back at her father and saw his eyes swimming with such a look as one she had never seen before.

"Lessons my sweet child?" Lord Snow asked, cutting through the mystified silence. Her father set her down so that they might begin.

Her lessons were nothing like the lessons bannerman children learned. Lord Snow had confessed himself that he was not much of a teacher, but her father had said he was more learned than a lowly blacksmith, and so Lord Snow taught her her lessons. Mostly, he recounted the history of Westeros, but more recently, he had begun to endeavor to teach her how to read. She couldn't wait to show Lady Stark.

As it was, however, it seemed as though she would not see Lady Stark until the next day. She and her father waited that night, waited a good long while, and she had hoped with all her heart that Lady Stark would find a way to come to them. But she did not.

It was with a weary heart that Lawna went to bed that night, hugging her wooden sword to her chest, but feeling like it paled in comparison to the feel of Lady Stark's hand entwined in her own.

But the next day she had awoken in all excitement. She had put on her best furs, and clothes, bundling herself up for the cold. Her father had laughed at her merriment, and then told her not to eat her breakfast so quickly.

When Lady Stark had finally arrived, they set off, Lawna on her father's shoulders and Lady Stark by his side, the cold morning air swirling around them, lightly powdered with a thin snow. It was so light, it almost looked like mist, and the sun looked like it was shinning, so there was no fear of a sudden storm.

The woods were quiet that morning, and though it had snowed a good deal during the night, the trees were so thick that there was only a light dust on the ground, easy to walk through.

Lawna could not remember a time where she was more happy. Her father and Lady Stark were telling stories, lovely stories. Funny stories.

"I remember that he said, 'bark like a dog if you're in trouble,' or something of the sort," Lady Stark was saying as they broke through the woods and headed towards the farmers house. "And I said, 'that's stupid. If I need help, I'll yell help.'"

Her laughter was tingling and sweet, ringing off the snow.

"I thought it sounded like a good idea," her father grumbled.

"And it wasn't," Lady Stark said, laughing again. Lawna laughed too, though she really didn't know why. It didn't matter anyway. Lady Stark's merriment made her merry as well.

They approached the farm, and the farmers children raced out, and then stopped short at the sight of Lady Stark. The farmer came out as well, and he too looked stunned. Lawna felt uncomfortable, and she could sense that Lady Stark felt so as well.

"Lady Stark," the farmer said, dropping into a respectful bow, his children following his lead. "We had no idea of your arrival, or we would have-"

"Oh no," Lady Stark said awkwardly, holding up a hand. "There is no need for ceremony. Gendry and Lawna were going on a walk, and they asked me to join them."

Still, it did not feel the same as it did when Lady Stark was not there.

"Might I go and play, father?" Lawna asked tentatively.

"Yes of course," he said, sounding relieved, and he lifted her from her shoulders so that she might play.

But no sooner did she run and begin her play, did Lawna turn around, hearing her father and Lady Stark having words. She just caught the word 'mother' before Lady Stark's face broke out in a livid anger and she turned on her heel and marched off, back towards Winterfell.

"What did you say?" Lawna demanded, rushing to her father in a panic.

"Nothing," her father said, and there was anger in his eyes as well.

"You made her angry!" Lawna cried, tears pooling in her eyes. "You made her want to leave! And now she'll never come back!"

"Lawna-"

But Lawna would hear none of it.

"I hate you!" She cried, tears running down her face, and then she took off after Lady Stark, determined to stop her and persuade her not to leave.

"LAWNA!"

But she ignored her father's roars, pushing through the snow in all haste, following the tracks made by Lady Stark. She could just see her, disappearing back into the woods, and, her breathing ragged and her heart swelling in her chest, Lawna ran to catch her.

"Lady Stark!"

Lady Stark did not hear her, so Lawna ran faster.

"Lady Stark!"

This time she heard and turned around, the expression on her face one that Lawna could not place. Lady Stark waited at the edge of the woods for Lawna to catch her breath.

"Lady Stark," Lawna said, hastily wiping away her tears. "Please don't leave. Father's wicked to make you upset."

"Your father is not wicked," Lady Stark said with gentle firmness. "He is a good man."

"Please don't leave Lady Stark," Lawna begged, coming towards her. "I don't want you to go, and neither does Father, even if he says things to make you upset."

Lady Stark gave her a long, hard look.

"I know," she said after a long time.

"Then you'll stay?" Lawna said tentatively. She didn't dare to dream.

"I think so," Lady Stark said thoughtfully.

"For... Forever?"

That seemed to cause Lady Stark some discomfort, for she did not speak for a long time.

"Is it Father?" Lawna pressed. "Do you not love him?"

She knew she really ought not to say such things. It wasn't her place, especially when she was talking to Lady Stark. But she had to know. Had to. She had to be sure that it wasn't her fault that Lady Stark was leaving.

"Why would I not love him?" Lady Stark said, and to Lawna's surprise, she sounded almost wounded.

"Because he is a blacksmith," Lawna said, frowning. "And ladies are not supposed to love blacksmiths."

"Your father was a knight once," Lady Stark said thoughtfully. "Did you know that?"

"No, my lady," Lawna said, coming forward to walk with her.

"I was so angry with him," Lady Stark said, her eyes stormy from the memories.

"Why?" Lawna asked, not understanding.

"Because he left me," she said, and for the first time, Lady Stark looked very sad, and there was a sort of look on her face that Lawna couldn't place. A brokeness. "He left me to be a knight and ride about the land with a bunch of outlaws.

"Why would he do that?" Lawna wondered, feeling confused.

"Because he was a stupid, stubborn bull that's why," Lady Stark said, kicking at a bit of snow. And then her expression changed. "Did I ever tell you about the Lost Knight?"

"No, Lady Stark," Lawna said, even more at a loss as to how this related to anything at all.

"It's a very sad story," Lady Stark said, and Lawna could tell that it was. Lady Stark looked sad just telling it.

"What happened?" Lawna asked.

"There was once a knight," Lady Stark said, looking off into the snow dusted wood, "who road over the North and the seven kingdoms, in search of a girl."

"His lady love?" Lawna guessed.

"Yes," Lady Stark said, giving her a small, rewarding smile. "His Lady love, though he didn't know it at the time."

"He didn't?" Lawna was confused again. This was a very confusing story.

"All he knew was that they had been parted, and that, out there, somewhere, she was alive and lost. And without him," Lady Stark said softly. "He just didn't know how lost."

"Where was she?" Lawna asked.

"Some place," Lady Stark said with a shrug, "some city in some exotic, foreign country. It mattered not. He rode over the kingdoms, in search of her, never giving up hope. Years, it took him. They said his eyes were the saddest in all of Westeros."

"Did he end up finding her?" Lawna wanted to know.

"No," Lady Stark said very sadly. "He thought he did, though. He rode back to her old castle, and her old home, after hearing rumors that she was there. And when he arrived, he was sure that he had found her."

"How was he sure he had found her when he hadn't?" Lawna demanded, her mind running circles in her head.

"Oh the girl looked like her, she had her eyes and her hair and her body, but she wasn't the girl he had known," Lady Stark said, looking off into the woods again, and Lawna had a feeling that she was not looking at the woods, but something else. "That's the sad thing in the story. She was lost to him, and when he found her, she was still lost."

"It's a very sad story," Lawna agreed. "I hope one day that he found her, that she wasn't really lost forever."

Lady Stark turned to Lawna, and there was a hint of a smile on her face.

"No," she said softly, kneeling down so that she was Lawna's hight. "See there was this girl, a little wisp of a thing, and she came into the world, and though the knight's lady was quite lost, the little girl knew where to find her."

Lawna gasped.

"Was that little girl me?" she asked. Lady Stark smiled, and what a rare and pretty smile it was.

"Yes," she said, standing up and taking Lawna's hand as they neared the gates of Winterfell.

"So does that make me the hero of the story then?" Lawna asked shyly, a foolish grin spreading itself across her face.

Lady Stark laughed.

"Yes," she sighed. "I suppose it does."

**The idea for the knight was not mine, but I absolutely adored it and wanted to put it in here. No stealing was intended, I just loved how beautifully haunting the story was, and really wanted to place it in this story. The original I believe is here, along with a fic that was written about it. I recommend checking them out, if you want: **

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	5. The trials and tribulations of sewing

Sansa gave an annoyed huff, glaring out into the yard. _Where was Arya?_ She always ruined everything. Even when they were little girls she was always running off, coming back with all sorts of stuff in her hair and mud splattered across her dress. Or she was out sparing with her brothers, or watching her brothers spar. Lately, however, all she seemed to do was spend time with the bastard.

At first, Sansa had seen no harm in it. They had been friends, when she and Arya had been separated during the war, and the bastard had looked after her little sister, though, Sansa had to admit, Arya hardly needed looking after. Even then, when she was nothing but a child. Arya had not been a child long.

"Children don't kill people," she had told Sansa once rather fiercely, when Sansa had reeled back in horror at hearing her younger sisters tales of the road.

She had taken that as a lesson never to call Arya a child again, even when referring to the past.

When Arya had returned, it had seemed like there was no child left in her, or even a hint that one had ever been there. There seemed to be no human there, to be perfectly honest, and it had frightened Sansa with a chill colder than the Others. The things her younger sister said and did... Once Sansa had seen her kill a man, right in front of her, his blood spilling often in her nightmares...

But it had been war then, Arya had said, and Sansa knew all too well how war created monsters. _If you want to win, you have to be one, _she had said to herself. But she, unlike Arya, had never succeeded. She might have pretended to be hard and cold and wrathful, but if there was a sword in her hands, she doubted very much that she would kill with the ease and lust that Arya did. Every stranger was someone to her sister. Every death was a vengeance.

Sansa knew all too well how she felt. But all the same... She had hoped that Arya would soften once the war had ended, and Stannis sat atop the throne, the last Lannister still hiding in exile. As it was, she grew even more unsettling.

And then the bastard had come. Only he wasn't just a bastard then, but a knight, though no knight that she had ever known. And he had the flag of the wolf, the sign of house Stark. When he had road into Winterfell that day, he had looked like any hero out of the songs.

He had been handsome too, Sansa remembered thinking, but he had not even noticed her. When he removed his bull helm and revealed a mane of shaggy black hair, his blue eyes looked right through her and straight to Arya.

Arya had been like a ghost that day. She walked towards him as if a dream, her eyes in far off places, no doubt remembering. Her fingers had stretched out to him, and for a moment, Sansa had wondered if this knight and Arya had been lovers. But that would have been impossible. Arya had grown up in Braavos, and then knight was no man of Essos.

Still, there was a moment of questioning, and Sansa looked to Jon, Bran, and Rickon, all who looked as clueless as she did. They could only watch, as their sister glided towards the knight atop his horse and then stopped.

He had only said too words, Sansa remembered.

"My Lady."

"_Get. Out."_

The viciousness of the snarl caused his horse to buckle and shy away, its eyes white with fear. Sansa felt fear too. She knew that voice, so laced with rage and wildness, and she feared, a moment, that her sister might rip the man to shreds.

"No."

Sansa gasped aloud. But the knight didn't look a lick afraid. His blue eyes rang with stubbornness. _Stupid, _Sansa thought. _Stupid bullheaded knight._

Arya growled, but he ignored her, dismounting and walking right past her, to Sansa, who could only stand there, confused.

"My lady," he said, dropping to his knee. "I offer you and your house my services."

Sansa said nothing. Her mind whirled in confusion. Behind the knight, Arya prowled, looking wild.

"I said get out!" She shouted, but he ignored her still.

"I am not much of a knight," he had said, still kneeling. "In truth, I was only given the title by the Brotherhood. Perhaps you have heard of them?"

"I have," said Sansa, frostily. At the mention of the Brotherhood, Arya bristled.

"Then why don't you go back to them?" She shouted. "Go back to your precious Brotherhood! You are most unwelcome here."

The black haired young man ignored her completely.

"I would like to submit myself to you, my lady, and to you, my lords, as a humble blacksmith. I can see that your smithy is in need of one."

Sansa blinked in surprise. A blacksmith? But, despite her distaste, she had to admit, he had a point. The smithy was empty, in desperate need of someone adequate to fill it.

"What is your name, knight?" Jon asked, stepping forward. To Sansa's surprise, red blush ripped across the strangers face.

"Gendry," he said gruffly. "Gendry... Waters."

"You're a bastard."

Sansa hadn't meant to say it, but such was her surprise that the words had slipped from her lips. The bastards face reddened still more, from shame no doubt, and for the first time, it seemed, Arya forgot her anger.

"Sansa!" she said sharply, as if to reprimand her sister, and then, as if remembering herself, pulled back her frosty appearance. "You're absolutely right. We've got no place for bastards here."

"Shall I be off then?" Jon growled, and Sansa gave a start. Sometimes, for a moment, she would forget that Jon was a bastard and not her true born brother. He must have been just as offended as the false knight before them.

There was a prickling silence, and Arya had the good grace to look ashamed.

"You can stay on," Jon said angrily, glaring at both his half sisters. "The gods know we need a good man in the forge."

"But-"

Jon's glare was so fierce, it even snapped Arya's lips shut. A stunning thing to do indeed.

And that had settled that matter. Arya had been furious, of course, and wouldn't answer any of Sansa questions. Who was he? Nobody. What was he to her? Nothing. And so on and so forth until Sansa just stopped asking.

"He's a bastard from the south," Jon had said when she had asked him.

"I would have thought that would have been obvious," Sansa had retorted, trying not to sound as annoyed as she felt. Jon gave her a reprehending look.

"He says he met Arya after father died, while traveling with the Knight's Watch," he said, frowning. "He says they were friends."

"So what happened to make her so angry?" Sansa pressed.

"He joined the Brotherhood," Jon said, and even he looked angry at the bastard blacksmith for leaving their little sister. "And Arya ran away."

"She can't be angry if she was the one who ran," Sansa said reasonably, but Jon just shook his head.

It seemed that Arya could be angry, and was. She barely spoke to the blacksmith the first half year, and then suddenly she was speaking to him, but it wasn't really speaking so much as shouting. Half of Westeros could hear their yelling. Sansa often thought that the blacksmith was incredibly brave or incredibly stupid to shout back when her sister was shouting at him, but if there was one thing she cared to know about him, it was that he was stubborn.

"I don't understand it," Sansa and sighed to Bran. "She hates him. They fight constantly. He obviously hurt her very much. Why on earth would we let him stay? Surely there's another smith around who has as much skill and merit that he does."

"He's quite the smith," Bran had said absently as they gazed over the yard at the forge, where Arya and the blacksmith were at it again, arguing.

"Yes, but look at them! I'm surprised she hasn't ripped his throat off," Sansa complained. "And I hate to see her so upset."

"Give it time," Bran had said after a long pause, and that, it would seem, settled the matter and no amount of Sansa's reasoning could let anyone see sense.

And then, the fighting began to die down. And, when the year was over, it seemed like their fighting was only for show, and suddenly, a rare thing began to happen. Arya started to smile again.

Sansa had walked by the forge one day, and had spotted Arya there, talking to the blacksmith. At first she had been seriously annoyed, because noble girls really ought not to spend their time in smelly forges, but then she had paused. And there it was. A smile on Arya's lips.

After that, it was hard to refuse Arya the company of the bastard blacksmith. After all, if he made her happy, when happiness had seemed near impossible for her little sister, how could Sansa keep them apart? She was full of propriety, but she wasn't cruel.

She wasn't stupid either.

She began to notice the glances even before Arya noticed them herself. There was one time, when she caught them coming back from a ride, and Arya was rolling her eyes at something the blacksmith had said, and then she looked at him.

And Sansa knew, in the back of her mind, in that moment, that that look was trouble. Arya seemed to know it too, for the next day she was off, on one of her long rides, off and away. And when she returned, there was no hint of the look on her face again for some time.

And then... Something changed. Sansa didn't know exactly when, but suddenly there was a shift in the way Arya and the blacksmith acting around each other. Hidden looks, and a whole different atmosphere. Arya had left only once then, but she had come back swiftly.

"I just couldn't stay away," she said with a shrug, and it wasn't the first time that Sansa was suspicious that she was missing something.

She didn't miss it for long. One day, she caught Arya being sick and had called for a maester, despite her sister's feverish protests.

And she had found out that her sister was not ill, oh no, she was _pregnant_.

"I'll string that bastard blacksmith!" Sansa had howled when Arya finally relented who had done the deed.

"You'll do no such thing," Jon had said warily, giving Arya a long, almost disappointed look. "Gendry's a good sort and I like him."

"Well, I've heard tales of women who know how to cleanse a mother of an unwanted child, perhaps we could find one," Sansa had relented, but even that was shot down.

"If you even let such a woman near the gates of Winterfell, I'll rip her teeth off!" Arya had shouted from her place on the bed. "And there is no 'we' Sansa! This child is in my womb, not yours!"

"Every child deserves to live," Jon had said stonily. "Even a bastard."

Sansa gave a loud, angry huff. Honestly, she thought, if she hadn't suggested it, Arya probably would have gotten rid of the child herself. But she was so stubborn! Just like her blacksmith.

"This will ruin the name of Stark," she tried to reason with Arya, but by now her sister looked very near tears. A rare thing indeed.

"Father had Jon," she said in a wobbly voice, "and he did not disgrace the name of house Stark."

"That was different," Sansa explained gently. "He was a man-"

"DAMN MEN!" Arya shrieked, leaping from her bed in nothing but her thin nightgown. Jon looked away hastily, his cheeks inflamed. "And damn you!"

And with that she had marched from the room, tears of fury trailing down her face as she went, no doubt off to see her blacksmith again. She was always with that damned blacksmith.

And then it would have been absolutely impossible for Sansa to change Arya's mind. The blacksmith had been fiercely protective, so protective that, in some moments, he seemed more wolf than bull. Arya, of course, hated it, and they fought to no end. More often then not, however, the blacksmith got his way.

Sansa remembered one time that he had told her not to go riding, and so... Well Arya wouldn't be Arya if she didn't disobey rules. She hated being told what to do, even when it was for her own good, and so off she marched. She had even mounted the horse by the time Jon and Rickon had joined the blacksmith and successfully pulled her off, shouting as she went. Sometimes... Sansa often wondered if there was no child left in Arya, but there were times like those when she was reminded what a child her little sister could be.

And now, it would seem, Arya had fled again, when she was supposed to be there with Sansa. Sansa had told her a million times that the bannermen's daughters and wives were coming in for stitching and luncheon, and that Arya was to be there alongside her sister, assisting the young girls and the like. But, of course, like with every time Sansa tried to coerce her sister in courtly life, Arya slipped from her fingers like smoke.

But there she was! And there was someone with her.

The little bastard girl. Her daughter.

As Sansa all but ran down to them, taking the stairs as quickly as she could, she couldn't help but think, despite appearing frosty, that she really did like the little girl. She looked very much like the blacksmith, all black hair and sparkling blue eyes, but she had Arya's long face, a serious face, even though she couldn't be more than six years old. And though she was full of wolf and bull, the little girl had a little bit of lady in her yet. At least she didn't run around brandishing a sword and sticking it in all sorts of things like a little heathen. At least... Not yet.

"Arya!" She shouted, crossing the yard in unladylike haste. "ARYA!"

Arya gave a guilty start, and when she turned around, her grin was sheepish. Sansa hoped her glare was as murderous as she felt.

The little girl whose hand was in Arya's, gave a start, and she looked horrified. _She's terrified of me, _Sansa thought with a frown, and the thought made her sad. She didn't want the little girl to be frightened of her. Never that. Perhaps she had been a bit too harsh.

"Arya, where have you been?" This time, her tone was a bit kinder.

"Out for a walk," Arya said. "With Gendry and Lawna."

The little girl dared not meet Sansa's eyes, but she sent Sansa a frightened look, and caught them all the same. When she did, she gasped aloud.

"You were supposed to be getting ready," Sansa sighed, annoyed, looking over Arya's skirts, which were soaked from the snow. "For the bannermen girls, do you remember? Sewing?"

Arya scowled.

"I hate sewing," she said with disgust.

"Yes I know," Sansa said, frustrated, "but the duty of a lady-"

"Yes, yes," Arya snapped, waving her off. "Fine. I'll go. But I'll bring Lawna with me."

Sansa glared, but Arya stared right back at her, as defiant as ever. Really, Arya could be so difficult sometimes, and she knew she was only doing this to make Sansa furious. But honestly! The child had probably never held a needle in her life!

"Arya-"

"It is high time Lawna learned to hold a needle, I should think," Arya said in a perfect imitation of Sansa's tone, and Sansa really could have given her a slap for being so rude. As it was, she was disinclined to with the little girl looking so frightened.

"Fine," Sansa snarled, "but you must look after her."

"Of course," Arya said indignantly.

Sansa stole another look at the little girl, whose eyes were as wide as saucers. She looked quite dumbstruck, but Jon had said she had inherited some of Arya's quick wit, and was not insipid. Sansa hoped that was all she had inherited, but it was highly doubtful.

As they swept back into the castle, all as silent as mice, Sansa could feel the little girl's nervousness. When she looked back again, she saw that her little hands were grabbing Arya, her eyes wide as she took in the castle, which must have been very strange and frightening to her.

"Don't worry," Sansa heard herself saying, "the castle looks frightening at first, but it's really not. It's warm. See? Feel the walls."

Looking unsure, the little girl reached out her hand, and then cried out in delighted surprise when her hand touched the warm stone. Arya laughed.

"They are warm," the little girl said, her eyes full of wonder, and then, she seemed to remember herself with a start, "Lady Stark."

She bowed her head respectfully when addressing Sansa.

"Your father has taught you well with your manners," Sansa allowed herself to compliment the little girl. She blushed.

"Oh yes my lady. And Lord Snow has taught me how to speak properly to ladies and lords alike, so as not to cause offense," the little girl said, bowing her head again. Sansa couldn't help it, she smiled.

"Here now Arya," she said, "the little girl is more articulate than you are."

"Your humor knows no bounds," Arya said drily. "Shall we press on? I thought this was an urgent matter."

Sansa did her best not to roll her eyes as she turned around and led the way. When they had finally arrived, everyone was ready and waiting, and Sansa could really kill Arya for making them so late. No wonder they were all staring at them with open mouths. No lady should arrive late! But then, Sansa blinked, and realized that they weren't looking at her, but at Arya, and specifically the little girl.

She had shrunk behind Arya's skirts, and she must have said something, because Arya gently pulled her back into the open, saying, "don't be silly, Lady Sansa said you could be here."

Sansa felt her gut twist in guilt. This had been a very poor lapse in judgement. Of course the little girl shouldn't be here. Not because Sansa didn't want her there, but because no one would understand why she would ever be allowed. Even if there had been a war, and men had died, it didn't mean that old customs and traditions and rules had died as well.

"Erm... Shall we?" Sansa offered lamely, and Arya skirted to a corner, quickly dragging the little girl behind her.

Finally, a soft chatter began again, and Sansa fetched Arya a needle and thread and a bit of cloth for the little girl to practice on. Leaving them, she traveled around the room, doing her duty, looking over all the little girl's stitches and talking to their mothers. A lady must always show her people that their duty was important to her, and Sansa was good at that. Smiling and looking pretty and being sweet. It reminded her of her childhood.

Every so often, she would throw a look at Arya and the little girl, and it seemed as though the little girl was as skilled with a needle as her lady mother. That was to say... The bit off cloth looked like a tangled mess.

That was when Sansa heard the giggling.

She turned sharply to see a gaggle of older girls, about eleven or so, all huddled together, giggling and whispering, throwing looks over at Lawna and her stitching. Sansa caught the word 'bastard,' and then they giggled again.

The little girl looked up at the source of the giggling, and when she saw who it was, and what they were laughing at, she hung her head in shame, tears pooling in her eyes.

Sansa never had much of a temper, but this seemed to snap something within her. Without thinking, she marched over to the girls, all terror.

"Excuse me," she said, keeping her voice even, "but I would like to know, what is it that you find so funny?"

The girls looked alarmed.

"Her," Arya snarled, leaping to her feet, standing in front of the girl as if to protect her from an advancing pack of menacing dogs. "They find her funny."

"Is this true?" Sansa demanded, and the girls looked frightened. But there was one that seemed bold and she spoke up.

"Her stitching's funny," she said. "She sews like she has the hands of a blacksmith."

"I suppose you think you're funny, don't you?" Arya growled. "And as it so happens, I like the hands of a blacksmith."

Sansa closed her eyes, stifling a groan. _Honestly, _she thought, _of all the things to say. _

"You girls are of noble birth," Sansa said sternly. "You are to conduct yourselves with the upmost courtesy and kindness. Such behavior is very disappointing of high born girls such as yourselves."

The girls and their mothers shifted awkwardly in their seats.

"Arya," Sansa said, turning to her sister, "I give you leave to take the little girl and return her to her father."

Arya nodded.

"Come along Lawna," she said gently, and then she threw a murderous glare at the room, "ladies."

And with that she was gone, leaving a gaping silence behind her.

Sansa sighed. With Arya, it would seem that nothing would ever be right.

**As you can see, I keep writing on this story. And as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments!**


	6. No lessons today

Jon Snow tucked a few books under his arm before turning his boots towards the forge, leaving the warmth of his room as he always did at this time of day to teach Lawna her words. It would be better, truthfully, if a septa or a maester taught her, for Jon was intelligent enough, but not nearly a teacher, but he liked teaching her. Sometimes, it felt nice to have a fellow Snow at Winterfell.

And, when Arya was gone, it was especially nice to have the little girl around. She reminded him so much of how Arya was at that age. She had wit, though was not as ready to offer it as Arya had been. A life of being a lowborn bastard had taught her to hold her tongue, and she was very shy, unlike her mother. But when Lawna was comfortable with someone, she was just like Arya. A bit haughty at times, loud, and very unconventional, waving her favorite wooden sword in the air and shouting about imaginary battles in her head. More often than once it had brought a smile to Jon's lips, remembering how it had been when they were all young and unaware of the horrors war had to offer.

However, when he got to the forge, there was no trace of Lawna, or Arya. Instead there was only Gendry, beating away at the metal, and Jon knew at once that he and Arya must have argued, for there was that black glitter in his eyes and his face was set as hard as stone.

Jon liked Gendry well enough. He was a bastard, like himself, but his lord father, or whoever his father had been, was not as kind and gracious as Lord Stark had been towards Jon. For Jon, there was no question who his father was, and the Starks, besides Lady Catelyn, had always felt like family. Gendry had no family. His mother had died when he was very young.

Once more, Gendry had not experienced the life Jon had. Jon might have been a bastard, but he had been taught and brought up close to his highborn brothers. Gendry knew nothing of refined talk or education, and so, before Lawna had arrived, Jon had tried to teach him to at least read.

"I don't see no point in it," the blacksmith had said gruffly. "I don't need to read in the forge."

"Hmm yes," Jon had said absently, writing out letters in long, slow scrawls. "But I don't want to teach you for the forge, though I could remind you that it'd be helpful if you could read the orders that you're charged with."

"I can listen when people tell me what they want," Gendry said with an annoyed shrug. "But if you aren't teaching me for the forge, then what are you teaching me for?"

"Oh because I want to," Jon said, admiring his handiwork. "And because I'm tired of hearing how illiterate Arya thinks you are."

Gendry seemed surprised at this.

"Why do you care?" He asked. "I don't mind."

"You don't mind?" Jon asked dubiously, giving Gendry a pointed look.

Gendry frowned.

"Well, it _is_ irritating," he said, his face pulled into an annoyed expression just to think about it, "but it's true."

"Well not anymore," Jon said, pushing the letters towards Gendry. "At least, not anymore _soon_. I'm going to teach you."

It hadn't been as easy as it would be with Lawna. Gendry, despite being a fine person, was not the most apt for learning. But he was a stubborn man, a determined man, and once he set his mind to something, he did not stray from it. They struggled together through it, long into the night or any moment that Gendry was free from work, and, more or less came out successful. Gendry could read, but, admittedly, not very well.

"Doesn't matter," he had said one day, obviously fed up with it. "I can read better than most men, and that's all I wanted to do anyway."

It seemed to do the trick. One day, Arya had come back from the forge looking stunned, and Jon had known without asking that she had caught Gendry reading. The look on her face had been worth the nights of struggle. It had taken a very good amount of self restraint for Jon to keep from laughing.

But Jon's lessons, how ever questionably effective they might have been, had proved fruitful. One day, when he had decided to go for a short walk, he had passed by the forge, and saw that Arya (who, interestingly enough, had been fighting less and less with Gendry) was sitting there, in the forge, appearing to have just snatched something from Gendry.

"No, no, no," she had said, pointing to a bit of paper with writing on it. "It's a longsword, see? Looong. Look with your eyes, stupid."

"I look with my eyes just fine," Gendry had snapped, snatching the paper back, but Jon had seen just a hint of a smile flash onto his lips.

Jon had felt a real smile spring to his. Arya had seemed buried when she first arrived, so much so that she really wasn't Arya at all, but someone with her face. But gradually, with time, Arya seemed to poke through her frosty, vacant mask. And the arrival of Gendry had seemed to pull her out more and more.

"But he's so simple!" Sansa had complained.

He might have been simple, but Jon liked him all the same. He liked him admittedly much less, however, when he found out that he had impregnated his sister.

The desire to throttle the blacksmith was there, and Jon couldn't help but feel a vindictive battle cry sound within his head at Sansa's angry outburst, agreeing with her fully. But just as soon as the feeling came, it left. It was true, despite being far less than happy with the man, Jon did like him. And he knew how much Gendry meant to Arya. He just hadn't known how much.

The thought of them being together, though it was very obvious, still brought a twinge to his heart and a twisting to his gut.

After Arya had leapt to her feet, all fury and shouts, and stormed from the room in nothing but her nightdress, Jon had decided to go after her. He had given himself a good hour to think before he made his way down to the forge. Not only did he have to sit down and process the information, to get it into his head that _Arya _was _pregnant_, he also didn't want to be in danger of saying something to her or to Gendry that he might later regret.

When he made his way down to the forge, however, he found no trace of Arya or Gendry, and for one, blind, insane moment he was sure they had run off together. But then he had drawn closer, and saw that they were both there.

"She's sleeping," Gendry said, staring out into the yard, the look on his face making Jon think that he wasn't really there.

Jon saw. Arya lay on a dingy cot by the fire, curled up in a ball beside Gendry, her hand in his as he sat next to her, staring off into space. The look on his face was shocked, struck, but there was something else too. Something Jon couldn't quite place. A happiness. But it was hidden, forced back, and so it might not have been that at all.

"She told you then?" Jon said, and he could hear the accusation in his tone.

"Yes," Gendry said, his voice heavy. "She told me. She came in here all hellfire and raving like she always does. Shouting about Sansa. But she said that the maester had given her a sleeping draft, and it wasn't long until she took to the cot."

There was a long, stretching silence. One where Jon breathed very deeply, trying to quell the growing anger in his chest.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Gendry laughed at this.

"And have my head chopped off?" he said with a dark chuckle. Jon felt something flare within him.

"She's my sister!"

Gendry's eyes looked solemn.

"I know," he said softly. "I know."

Jon felt the anger within him die down a bit. Gendry looked so solemn, so stoic, that it was very hard to hate him. Especially when he knew that the blacksmith had most certainly never forced himself on his sister. Even now, their hands were entwined. Jon felt stupid for not seeing it before.

"What are you going to do?" He asked, and this time he didn't sound so angry.

"I don't know," Gendry said with a deep sigh. "Whatever she lets me do, I suppose."

They both looked at Arya, looking so innocent in her sleep, though she was never innocent. Not really.

"You're the father," Jon said, in spite of himself. He supposed there was part of him that still didn't really want to believe it.

"Yes," Gendry said, and to his credit, his eyes never left Jon's. "I am."

"And will you be a father? To the child I mean?"

Gendry's face pulled into a frown.

"Yes of course," he said at once. "I won't abandon her."

"You did it once before," Jon hadn't meant to sound so harsh, but this was his sister, this was Arya, and he wanted to know the blacksmith's full intentions. He would not be left in the dark, as he had been before.

There was no mistaking the regret that flashed across Gendry's face.

"I'll never leave her," he swore. "Or the child, by the old gods and the new, I swear it."

And in that moment, Jon knew it would be so. No one could deny the ringing truth in his words, or the harsh sincerity of his voice. As they were spoken, so would they be.

And he had kept that promise. Even when Arya rode away, leaving a screaming infant in his arms, Gendry had stood vigilant. Waiting for her. And not a single person in Westeros could question what a good father he was. He loved that little girl so, and they went everywhere together. An inseparable pair.

But today it appeared that they were separated, because Lawna was no where in sight.

"Where's Lawna?" Jon asked immediately, frowning. "Surely something's not wrong?"

Gendry slammed his hammer into the piece of metal he was working on, hard. Jon suspected that Arya had something to do with the lack of the little girl.

"Did you quarrel with Arya again?" He asked with a sigh, and Gendry gave him an annoyed look.

"Lawna's in the castle, with Lady Sansa and all the other highborn ladies," Gendry said gruffly, ignoring Jon's question about Arya.

"Why on earth would she be there?" Jon asked, smelling trouble at once. Gendry shrugged his shoulders.

As if to answer his question, Jon heard a commotion, and then turned sharply around to see the little girl barreling towards them, her face red and blotchy and tears streaming from her eyes. There was a clatter of metal as Gendry dropped his tools and opened his arms to her. She collided with him, burying her head into him and crying.

"What's the matter?" Gendry demanded at once. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry I said I hated you!" Lawna wailed. "I don't father, I don't really! I was just angry!"

"What?" Gendry sputtered, perplexed, pulling Lawna away from her grip on his shirt and looking at her in the eyes. "Is that what this is all about?"

"No," Lawna admitted, her voice muffled as she wiped her nose on her father's scarf. Gendry gave Jon a grimace.

"Then what is it?" He asked gently. "What's wrong?"

"Don't listen to them! Honestly, they're all silly little gnats the lot of them!"

Jon looked up to see Arya striding forward, all haste, her hand on her stomach and her face screwed up in anger.

"What's going on?" Gendry demanded again, and suddenly he didn't sound gentle. He sounded furious. "What have you done?"

"I haven't done anything!" Arya snarled, glaring at the blacksmith just as fiercely as he was glaring at her. "Sansa wanted me to go sew with the bannermen girls-"

"SO YOU DECIDED TO TAKE HER ALONG?"

Gendry had never looked more murderous, and Jon suddenly wondered if he should step in and say something.

"Perhaps it's time for Lawna's lessons?" He offered weakly, but they ignored him.

"You're always saying I should spend more time-"

"Arya what could you have been thinking?" Gendry cut across her, his voice as hot and hard as the metal he worked. "She's a bastard child! She's got no place sewing with highborn ladies-"

"She's better than all those highborn ladies!" Arya interrupted him hotly. "And she's my daughter-"

"Oh is she now?" Gendry said, his tone mocking and his eyes black with rage.

"How dare you?" Arya sounded just as deadly and just as angry. But underneath all that, she sounded hurt as well.

"I will not have you going and hurting my daughter-"

"_OUR_ DAUGHTER!"

"Our daughter?" Gendry repeated. "Oh so you've finally decided to shoulder some responsibility then?"

"Maybe if Lawna and I were to go to the library-" Jon tried to cut in.

"I ought to stick you with my sword!" Arya shrieked.

"Don't do that," Gendry spat. "You might upset yourself and hurt the baby."

"I am upset!" Arya roared. "And you've upset me!"

There was a sniffling sound, and then Lawna burst into tears again. While Arya still looked angry, something in Gendry's expression changed.

"I want you out," he snarled in a low voice. "The both of you."

"So glad you noticed I was here," Jon said in a very flat voice.

Arya bristled.

"Well, I'm not leaving!" She said indignantly.

"Oh yes you are," Gendry said, taking a step towards her. "You're getting out of my forge right this instant."

"How dare-"

"I dare because you're upsetting Lawna," Gendry said, his voice low and dangerous. "And I want you gone. You've hurt our daughter enough today. Now leave us be."

There was no denying the hurt that shimmered there, in Arya's eyes. She looked like she might burst into tears herself. But Arya would never show such a weakness. Instead, she turned on her heel and stalked off towards the castle.

"That was badly done," Jon said softly as Gendry held Lawna. "On both your parts."

"I know," Gendry replied, and his voice sounded hollow and dead. "I know."

And with that Jon left the forge, looking back one last time to see Gendry stroking the little girls black hair, his lips moving silently, and Jon wondered if he was telling Lawna a story of a lady knight, a great warrior, who rode over Westeros conquering her enemies and leaving fear in her wake. A true hero.

But heros, Jon knew all too well, were for stories and songs. And he had a sinking suspicion that Lawna would come to learn this as well, if she hadn't already.

**Reviews, thoughts and opinions are always welcome! I don't really know what I want to do with later chapters, so we shall see what happens. =**


	7. Nightmares

**Okay so... Here's my plan: I'm going to do a few more chapters of this and then wrap it up, giving it a satisfying ending, and then I'm going to move onto my other stuff I think. Sound good?**

Winterfell was on fire. The entire world was on fire. The sky bled red hot, glowing like a freshly forged sword, smoke beating upwards in droves. The flames spit and roared, the sound of their crackling tongues mixing with the screams of the smallfolk as they ran, terrified. And it wasn't just the fire they were afraid of. Winterfell was under attack.

Arya ran from her room, sword drawn and heart in her throat, beating wildly in panic. Outside the walls of the castle she could hear the terror. The screams and shouts. Some were of pain and death, while others were of battle.

She ripped into the yard and into chaos, whipping around frantically, searching. Her eyes went to the forge, but there was no one there.

"GENDRY!" She screamed. "GENDRY!"

Riders dressed in black flooded the yard, riding horses that shown as dark as coal. They were like phantoms, drawing their swords and cutting down whatever was in their path. Arya felt panic choking and grasping at her throat. _What if they've already gotten him?_

"Arya!"

She spun around to see him running towards her, hammer in hand, and she reached out to him, running as well. She scrambled towards him, hand outstretched in desperation, running across the yard-

The axe swung out of no where. One minute he was running towards her, and the next he was doubling over, making terrible gurgling noises, retching in pain, and then he was falling... Falling... The axe buried in his gut, his blood spilling over his hands...

"NO!" She screamed. "NO! NOOOOOO!"

But her cries were useless. Everything was useless. She ran to him, but it mattered not. She did not reach him in time. By the time she collapsed beside him, the life had left his eyes and they were nothing but empty rooms, where once, only seconds ago, they had been wide awake with life.

She screamed in anguish, her body growing cold with disbelief. _This couldn't be happening_, she thought, sobs catching at her throat, tears spilling from her face and onto his, though he felt them not.

There was a scream.

_Lawna._

Arya's terror was paramount. She leapt to her feet, her sword drawn, her heart squeezed so tight that she could not breathe. And then it stopped beating all together.

The little girl was being dragged from the forge, kicking and screaming, crushed in the arms of one of the faceless knights. And then, out of no where, a sword was drawn.

_No._

"NOOOOOOOOO!" Arya screamed, her lungs raw. "NO! LAWNA! NO!"

It was as if all the sound in the world had been sucked away. As if time had slowed. She tried to run, but she could not. The sword was lifted high in the air, the steel gleaming in the heat and light of the fire, and then it was cutting down... Down... Down...

The little girl fell like a doll made of straw.

Arya screamed again.

And then there was a jolt, and hers eyes snapped open.

She was lying in her bed, her heart racing, her entire body shaking. Her skin was soaked with sweat and crawling, and she felt queer. She tried to take deep, shallow breaths, forcing herself to be calm. _It was just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream._

Unable to stand the sweltering heat of her bed, she ripped the covers back and stood.

And then she screamed again.

There, on the bed, was a stain of crimson blood.

The door banged open, and Sansa rushed in, her face all concern, but when she caught sight of the blood, the color drained from her face.

"Get the maester!" She shouted at the servants. "NOW!"

Arya's head began to swim and her knees felt weak. Her stomach felt sick as well.

"No," she groaned, feeling dizzy, her hand clutching at her stomach. "No."

"Arya," Sansa's face was swimming before her. "Come here. Sit down. Don't overexcite yourself."

"The baby," Arya said dully, and she could feel tears stinging in her eyes.

"What's going on?"

That was Jon's voice. And then there was a gasp. He must have seen the blood.

"I'm sorry," Arya said meekly as the world tilted and spun. "I'm sorry."

And then she remembered Gendry.

"I must see Gendry," she said, getting up and stumbling. "He needs to know. I must see Gendry."

"Sit back down!" Sansa's voice was harsh and Arya felt her hands force her gently back down into the chair.

"Arya, I'll send for him-"

"No!" She cried, suddenly feeling panicked. What if it hadn't been a dream? What if he was really hurt? Or dead, with an axe in his stomach? "NO! I've got to... Gendry... I must see him!"

"She needs to be calm," this was another voice. The maesters voice. "I'll give her a sleeping draft."

"No!" She shrieked. "Gendry! I must see Gendry!"

She felt hands forcing her head back.

"Arya please," Jon's voice was gentle and pleading, but she thrashed all the same, a foul tasting liquid slipping past her lips and down her throat.

The draft must have been strong, because already she felt her senses dull, the world slowly beginning to turn dark and fuzzy, her eyes blinking closed.

"Tell him..." she heard herself say weakly. "Tell him I tried to stop it... I didn't want... I ran to her... But there were too many of them and the flames were too hot..."

And with that she slid into blackness.

Arya dreamt of blood. The sky bled. The clouds oozed red, dripping like rain, and all Arya could think of was that she would be drowned in it. And again the scene played where Winterfell was burning, and the faceless knights rode in, and once again she was helpless, crying out in vain.

And then she was awake with a jolt.

The room was dark, the shutters were closed, but Arya could tell that she had slept the day away, and that night had fallen. She felt strange. Her body hurt and her head felt foggy and her tongue tasted thick and salty in her mouth.

And then she remembered.

Tears began to leak out of her eyes. _Oh no, _she thought, _oh no. _The baby. And there had been a pool of blood... The baby. She had lost the baby.

She gave a deep, shuttering breath and a low whimper escaped her throat as it became coated with saliva, her tears pouring out of her eyes in earnest as she began to weep. _Oh no. Oh no. Oh no._

She reached up to wipe the tears from her face, when she realized she couldn't. Thick, rough fingers were entwined with hers, holding her hand in a gentle yet firm grip.

She rolled her head over to see Gendry, sitting next to the bed in a great, probably very uncomfortable chair. One of his arms was curled onto the bed, and his head rested atop it, so that he was leaning over, fast asleep. He must have been there a long time.

_Gendry. _

"Oh no," she whispered aloud, tears starting to make everything blurry, shimmering in her eyes and coating her face in sticky rivers. He would be so disappointed.

"Arya."

She hadn't even noticed him stir, but suddenly he was awake, and his fingers were stroking her hair, and she wished he'd stop being so nice to her because it was all her fault and she couldn't stand it.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out, looking away.

"It's all right," Gendry said softly.

"No, it's not," she said, squeezing her eyes shut. "This is all my fault."

"Arya, I don't blame you," Gendry said softly. "I lost my temper too. I should have known better than to make you so upset."

Arya blinked.

"But the baby," she said. "I didn't want... I didn't... I..."

And then she was squeezing her eyes shut, crying again.

"Arya," Gendry's voice sounded extremely concerned. "Arya I thought you knew... Arya look at me."

She shook her head.

"Please."

She turned and then opened her eyes to find Gendry smiling. Why was he smiling? Was he mocking her?

"Arya," he said gently. "You didn't lose the child."

"I didn't?" she repeated stupidly. "But there was blood..."

"Yes," he said, and the smile slid from his face, "there was. And... The maester is concerned. He says you shouldn't leave this room for a while."

"A while?" Arya repeated, a strange mixture of happiness, relief and annoyance clashing inside her. "I have to stay in bed-"

"Don't start," Gendry said, his tone full of warning. "Please."

Arya frowned.

"I have some self control, you know," she said, feeling shaky and confused. There were too many emotions flashing around inside her, changing too quickly, and she felt dizzy and anxious.

Gendry must have noticed, because he sighed, and she felt him rub his rough thumb against the top of her hand in a reassuring way.

"You slept a long time," he said softly.

"Yes," she said with a frown. "What time is it?"

"Some time in the night I suppose," Gendry sighed, running a hand over his unshaven face.

"Where's Lawna?" she asked, all anxiety again. Gendry gave her a wary smile.

"In Sansa's room," he said.

"In... _Sansa's _room?" Arya repeated, sure she had misheard him. Gendry chuckled.

"I know," he said. "She looked as happy about it as Sansa did, but... It looked like you weren't going to wake up for a while, and I didn't want to leave you alone. Jon said you were really upset..."

Arya felt stupid. She had thrown quite a fit earlier, and it was nothing to be proud of, her going to pieces like that.

"You didn't have to stay," she said, her cheeks inflamed. Gendry frowned.

"Yes I did," he said as though it were obvious. "Of course I did. The pack stays together, remember?"

She did remember. She remembered Gendry bending the knee to the Brotherhood. She remembered him leaving her. _But you left him, _she thought. _And he came back. And he's never left since. Now I'm the one that's always leaving._

"Could you stay?"

Arya sounded so small just then, even to herself. But, in the past several hours, it had felt like every one of her nightmares, all buried in the back of her mind, had suddenly come forth in one raging torrent. She had not been this afraid in a long while, and it left her trembling. She hated it, to feel small and weak. _But Gendry makes me feel strong, _she thought softly, looking over his face, _when I cannot find my own strength, I find strength in him. _

"Of course," he said with a frown, as though she had somehow wounded him in assuming that he would leave. She pulled his hand close, cradling it to her.

"Come lie next to me," she said, wiggling slightly, very careful not to hurt her stomach. Gendry did as he was told, looking very unsure about the whole thing. "This might be the only time we ever get to share a featherbed."

He chuckled, curling into her, their faces close to one another. And then he began to sing.

_My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I'll lay you down,_

_ I'll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown._

_ For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord._

_ I'll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword._

Arya laughed softly and curled her nose with distaste.

"You're a terrible singer," she said. "And do you know how the rest of the song goes?"

"Of course," Gendry said, a flicker of his stubborn expression flashing across his face.

_And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree, _

_ She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me._

_ I'll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass,_

_ But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass._

"No featherbed for me," Arya repeated.

"No," Gendry said. "Only straw cots."

There was a long silence as they both lay there, trapped in different worlds, left to their own swirling thoughts.

"Do you remember... That was the first time I ever saw you look like a little lady," Gendry spoke up at last. Arya sighed.

"I was never very fond of dresses," she said. "And you practically tore that one to shreds."

Gendry frowned.

"Not without provocation," he said, "and as I recall, I got a clout about the head for it."

Arya grinned.

"Don't look so pleased about it," he snapped, but he looked amused all the same, and she knew that he was biting back a smile. _I miss this, _she thought to herself. _I miss arguing with him without really arguing. Everything's so much more complicated now._

"I didn't mean to upset Lawna," she said. Gendry sighed.

"I know," he admitted. "You were probably just trying to help."

"I was," Arya said earnestly. "I thought that it would be nice, to teach her sewing. I thought that now that I'm a... Such a..."

"Fearless warrior?" Gendry teased. She rolled her eyes.

"I thought they wouldn't say anything," she said.

"They always say something," Gendry said darkly. "Just because you ride away before you can hear it doesn't mean they don't say it."

Arya looked down at her stomach and sighed.

"I've left you with a lot, haven't I?" She said in a very small voice.

"I left you once," Gendry said, and though his tone was gruff, she knew that he bitterly regretted it. "When you needed me more than I need you now."

"I don't want to leave anymore," she whispered, and it was true.

_I just don't know if I can stop._

**Love every single one of your comments. Just in case you were worried that Arya's dream might be a vision of the future or something, it's not. It just shows the terrors she's been through and her fear that they might happen again, despite her pushing away said fear. I know that someone wanted a Bran chapter, and I might do that later.**


	8. Lawna and the featherbed

**Lawna**

"ARGH!"

"Oww. I'm dead."

"No you're not," the farmer's boy, Ruben, said with a frown. "If you were dead, you wouldn't talk. You would scream in pain. Usually, you scream in pain."

"Ahhhh," Lawna said flatly, and then she sat down on the ground with a 'humph!', the wooden sword still between her arm and her side. Ruben gave her a long look, and his face was crumpled in a stupid expression. He was probably thinking too hard.

"What's the matter?" He asked, sitting down beside her. "You usually like playing battles."

"Who says anything's the matter?" Lawna snapped back grumpily. "Maybe playing with you is boring."

"You used to like playing with me," Ruben said, picking at the grass they sat on. "But now all you talk about is Lady Stark, Lady Stark, Lady Stark."

His voice was mocking.

"I don't like you," Lawna said, glaring at him.

"Just wait until she leaves," Ruben said with a huff, getting to his feet. "Then you'll like me again."

"Stupid farmers boy!" Lawna shouted after him, but he paid her no mind.

"Lawna," a voice said sharply. "That's no way to speak to anyone, especially Ruben."

Her father came up to stand beside her, and from her place on the ground, he looked like a giant.

"I like it better when his sister plays with us," Lawna said grumpily. "She's nice."

"She is also ill. You should be nicer to Ruben. A few days ago, they were frightened that she might die. He's probably just upset," her father reasoned, sitting down beside her. He was right, she knew, but she hated being wrong.

"I want to see Lady Stark," she said in a small voice, digging at the dirt with her sword. Her father put his hand over hers. He often did that when he was about to tell her she could not have what she wanted.

"Lady Stark needs rest-"

"Lady Stark needs me!" She cried out, feeling tears pricking at her eyes. Her father's face looped into a gentle, sympathetic smile.

"She does need you," he said, taking Lawna in his arms. "And perhaps now that she is more rested, the maester will let you see her."

"Do you really think so father?" Lawna asked, her tears quite forgotten and hope springing into her heart.

"I cannot make any promises, mind," her father said sternly, getting to his feet and setting her down, her hand still in his. "The maester might turn us away. There's a very good chance that he will."

"But there's also a chance that he won't," Lawna said eagerly. "Right father?"

Her father sighed, and then hoisted her up onto his shoulders.

"You are just like your mother," he sighed. "You won't take no for an answer."

Lawna leaned onto her father's head as he walked through the frosted field. It felt like it was getting warmer now, and she had heard talk amongst the smallfolk that spring was coming. And, though she had never experienced spring, she heard it was warm and lovely, and that flowers bloomed, even here in the North.

"Tell me a story," she said.

"Very well," her father said with a chuckle. "What shall it be? Lady Stark's return from Braavos? Or the taking back of Winterfell?"

"Neither," Lawna said with a frown.

"Neither?" Her father repeated, sounding surprised and maybe a bit alarmed. He wasn't very good at telling stories.

"Father, why didn't you ever tell me the story about the Lost knight?" Lawna asked, and she felt her father's hold on her legs twitch slightly.

"Where'd you hear that?" he asked.

"Lady Stark told me," Lawna said. "She told me that the Lost knight never found his true love. Is that true?"

"She said that he never found his love?"

"Yes," Lawna said. "She said that he had thought he found his love, but that his love wasn't really there. That there was a different person there with her face."

Her father was silent a long time, and they were nearly back at Winterfell when he next spoke.

"Lady Stark is far more disparaging of the Lost knight's lady love than he was of her," he said. "He did find her, in the end."

"Did he?" Lawna asked, and she knew that this wasn't a story about a Lost knight and an unknown lady. She knew that this was the story of her father and Lady Stark.

"Yes," her father said as they walked through the gates. "He knew that he would always find her, when she was lost. And he knew that she was hidden inside somewhere, and that one day she would come back to him."

"Good," Lawna said with a satisfied sigh. "I like that ending much better."

Her father lifted her from his shoulders and set her down.

"I'm glad," he said, giving her a kiss on her forehead, but when he pulled away, his eyes looked so sad, and Lawna felt a rush of guilt, tears at her eyes again. She shouldn't have asked that! She knew better, than to ask him questions about Lady Stark. It always made him so sad, and she never wanted him to be sad.

He went to have a word with the maester, and when he returned, he was smiling.

"He says you can go in," he said, and she suppressed a squeal of delight, grinning up at him and inserting her palm in her mouth to ebb her excitement.

Her father took her hand and led her through the castle, following close behind the maester. Lawna had been terribly frightened of Winterfell for the longest of times. They were still working on rebuilding it, so some parts were dark and burned and scary. She had thought all of it was dark and scary and foreboding, just like Lady Sansa. But the walls were warm, she remembered, reaching out to trail her fingers against the heated stone. That gave her small comfort.

When they reached the door, her father gave her hand a squeeze.

"Aren't you coming too?" she asked, suddenly afraid.

"No," he said gently. "I have work at the forge, but I'll be back soon, and if you want to come and see me, all you need do is ask Lady Stark. I'm sure she'll understand."

Lawna wasn't so sure of that herself. The last thing she wanted to do was offend Lady Stark and send her running from Winterfell. Her father seemed to understand her conflict.

"I'll send Jon in to check on you in an hour or so," he said. "And if you'd like to go with him and do your lessons, you can."

She grinned. Her father always knew the right thing to do and say. Except when it came to Lady Stark.

"Go in now," he said, lifting her up and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Don't keep our lady waiting."

When he set her down, she felt her stomach fill with flutterings. But that was silly. Lady Stark was nothing to be afraid of. She loved her. Her father said so, and her father never, ever lied.

When she entered, the room was dark, and for a moment, she really was very afraid.

"Oh thank god," she heard a voice, which didn't sound weak and dying in the least. "Lawna, I hate to ask, but might you open a window? It's so gloomy and stuffy in here."

Lawna did as she was told, scuttling over to the thick shutters and then crawling up on a stool to wrench them open, flooding the room with much needed light.

"Thank you," Lady Stark's voice was genuine and gentle, and when Lawna turned around to see her at last, she was smiling.

She didn't look sickly or close to dying at all. This relieved Lawna tremendously. Lady Stark was fine. All her worrying had been useless.

"Come sit with me up here," Lady Stark said, patting the place next to her. "It's lonely with just me."

Lawna had never been on a featherbed before, and it was heaven. All soft and not poky and itchy in the least. Why would Lady Stark ever want to come to the forge when she had such a soft bed? The thought send a pang through Lawna's heart. No wonder she never wanted to be in the forge, which was smelly and hot and dirty. This room was clean and beautiful. Everything in the castle was fine, and Lawna knew that she and her father were not fine. That was why those highborn girls laughed at her.

"What's the matter?" Lady Stark asked, patting her hand. "Hmm? You weren't worried about me were you?"

"No," Lawna said, "I mean I was! Very worried, but father said you were all right, and father never lies so I knew you were all right."

"Then something else must be bothering you," Lady Stark said gently, and Lawna knew she was just being kind.

"Tis nothing my lady," Lawna said quietly, playing with her hands.

"No," Lady Stark said, and when Lawna looked up, she was frowning. "It's not nothing. Please tell me. Has Sansa been harsh with you?"

"Oh no my lady," Lawna said in a rush. "Lady Sansa's been ever so kind lately."

"Then what is it?" Lady Stark pressed. "I hate to see you so unhappy."

Did she? Lawna wondered. Did she really hate to see her unhappy? When Lawna looked up, she was surprised to see that she did. Lady Stark cared for her. It was enough to wipe away the empty feeling in her heart.

"I was just thinking," Lawna heard herself blurt out, "that everything is so fine here."

"Is it?" Lady Stark said with a laugh. Lawna frowned.

"We don't have featherbeds in the forge," she said. "Or linens. Or big chairs. Or warm walls."

"No, you don't," Lady Stark agreed.

"It must not make you want to come at all," Lawna said miserably. "Because it's so dirty. And not fine like the castle. And father's not fine like all the lords. I'm sure you have lots of lords who like you."

She stole a glance at Lady Stark, but to her surprise, she was smiling. Laughing, even.

"I don't think any lords would have me," she said, sounding amused. "And I wouldn't have them. Is that what you're worried about? That I'll leave your father for some perfumed lord?"

_And me. I'm afraid you'll leave me as well._

"Don't worry," Lady Stark said, ruffling her hair. _Just like father does, _Lawna thought. "I have no intention of ever settling down with a perfumed lord, ever."

_Yes, _Lawna couldn't help but think, _but where exactly are you going to settle down?_

**Here it is! Finally. Sorry about the delay. Love all your reviews**


	9. Brooding

**Gendry**

Gendry sighed, slamming the hammer down against the metal and sending sparks flying, but feeling none of it. The metal didn't sing today, it screeched. A dull, ringing screech. And though he had a mountain of work to do, and though he really needed to get it done, he knew his heart wasn't in it. Setting his tools down, he decided it was time for a break. Maybe lunch would clear his wandering mind.

It was Arya, he knew. Always Arya. She often used to drive him to distraction, though that was a quite different distraction indeed. Her now long, tangled hair, always shaking around her shoulders in dark waves, her eyes a cool dark gray. But when she smiled, there was a warmth in her eyes. A warmth that set his heart in his throat.

He had been a fool then. Tripping over himself to please her. Lingering in places she might be just in case she would happen by. But soon it became abundantly clear that Arya was far from forgiving him, or anyone. She was far from even herself, and her eyes did not smile at all. They were only cold.

Gendry might have been simple, but he was no fool. Jon's teachings had helped him some, and though Arya was softening, he knew that she had no regard for him. And why should she? Humble blacksmith that he was. Stupid and lowborn. What had he said all those years back in the Peach?

_"Too lowborn for milady high."_

Those words were full of wisdom. So he sought his pleasures elsewhere.

He had not thought she would care. Or even notice. It had only been twice that he had visited the pleasure house, and his visits, even in their small number, were far from frequent. In fact, he didn't really have an inclination to go again at all. Twice had been enough.

But then he was talking to that blonde haired girl, and suddenly Arya was crashing in, her horses hooves nearly crushing the poor girl's skull before Gendry threw her out of the way. But it was not Arya's rash act that had struck him.

It was the look of total fury and betrayal on her face.

_BUT WHY? _He wanted to shout after her. Why did she care? He had done nothing wrong. She had never even so much as looked at him in that way. Or had she? Had she? But that was impossible... Or was it?

As he stalked after Arya's horse, raining a thousand apologies upon the poor shaken girl, he felt a deep anger resonate within him. She cared, that was obvious, but she no right, _no right_ to treat him with contempt. He had done nothing but wait! He had done nothing but apologize again and again and again! And all she ever did was leave and hit him and act like everything was all his fault.

He had felt sour towards her. Bitter and cold. And had treated her as such. If she was going to act the child, than he would play his part more than willingly.

And then she said it, the words that burned like acid in his mind, eating away at his flesh until it was set aflame.

_"Why would I ever want promises from a bastard?"_

Because, why indeed? Why would she ever want him? It was like everything he had ever dreaded her to be thinking was spitting itself back at him. It had never hurt so much to be who he was, and he had hated her for it.

Days later she had come back, apologizing for it, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter because those words were empty and dead to him. It didn't matter because she ran like a coward, and he was sick of cowards. He was done with cowards.

When she had returned, he wanted none of her. He couldn't bear to see her, up on her horse, riding in like some sort of hero. She used to be a hero. When she was small, and scrawny, and brave. The Arya he had known would never run away.

But he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that she would not let his anger lie. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he had already forgiven her, because he also knew that she needed his forgiveness. She wouldn't just let him fall away. He meant more to her than that.

She had come late, and though his back was turned, he could see her, standing there, ghostly in the pale moonlight, adorned in one of her foolish, _lady _dresses. But this time he wouldn't let her get away so easily.

If she wanted his forgiveness, she'd have to earn it.

And she did, in a way. Sometimes it was too easy to forget how broken she was inside. How spiderwebs were just holding her together by their tiny threads, and that running was the only way she could keep herself together.

After he had kissed her, and made love to her, and it was better than anything he had ever dared to dream, she left. But she returned within days, and after that, she was never gone long.

It was bliss, those happy three months, where the extent of her flights were a mere few days. They had spent many a wonderful hour trekking through the woods, bundled up to their noses to keep out the cold, laughing and talking. She would come to watch him work, and they would tease each other and talk there too. She also loved to spar with him, thwacking him with her wooden sword until he was covered with bruises, and then gently putting her lips to those bruises later at night.

And then it all came to crashing halt.

She had come to the forge practically naked and sobbing, and he had been horrified.

"Are you hurt?" He shouted, dropping his tools as she buried herself in his arms. She shook her head. "What's wrong? What's the matter?"

Arya's next words had hit him like a blow to the head.

"I'm pregnant. Gendry, I'm going to have a baby."

But they had been so careful! And she had drunk all sorts of teas and herbs and whatnot, but there it was. It seemed like the gods were determined to thwart them.

Though at first it had almost felt unpleasant, the arrival of a child brought on such hope that Gendry had never allowed himself to feel. She was with child. _His_ child. A beautiful, innocent thing that was _theirs_. They were going to be a family.

"I love you," he whispered to her as she held the sleeping infant in her arms, a little girl that was more beautiful than anything Gendry had ever seen. "I love you."

The next morning she was gone.

Gendry could not have fathomed the feeling of waking up and finding the space next to him empty. Or the choking feeling of panic when he realized that she was gone. She had left him alone, with a newborn child and an empty heart.

When she had returned, he wondered if he would forgive her. Then he looked over at the wailing child in her cradle, and he knew that he would.

"Her name is Lawna," he told Arya when she had come to visit, tail between her legs. "You weren't here to name her."

Her silence was ringing, but when he looked up, there were tears in her eyes.

They never spoke of it, her leaving after Lawna's birth, but there had been silent consequences. They went a whole year without sharing each others bed, and Gendry wondered if they ever would lay together again. She must have known how deeply she hurt him. Just as he knew how terrified his declaration had made her.

They were both afraid.

But somewhere, in between the delight at Lawna's first words, her first steps, and every new thing she brought to their lives, they fell back together again. She brought them back together, when it looked like they would always be apart. Now, maybe, this new child would bring them closer still. Or it would tear them apart forever.

Gendry wasn't as foolish as he used to be, there was a certain dread that nagged at the back of his mind, and it was being made worse by her absence.

Want to or not, he missed her painfully. He missed being with her, talking to her, laughing with her, walking with her, and, of course, making love to her. It was a different kind of longing to have her so close, and yet she was so far away.

"Gendry, are you brooding?" It was Bran, funnily enough. He didn't visit the forge often, for he was usually studying magic or off with Meera, hunting and the like. They spent a good deal of time together.

"No," Gendry lied, standing up and picking up his tools.

"Well don't go back to work on my account," Bran said cheerfully, stepping into the forge.

"It's not on your account," Gendry said. "I have work that needs doing."

Arya's absence was making him grumpy as well.

"The maester says she can go out soon," Bran said, as if reading his mind. "Not out far, mind, just short walks, but I have a feeling those short walks are going to be to the forge and back."

When Gendry looked up, Bran was giving him an encouraging smile. Gendry couldn't find anything to say back, so he continued to work.

"She misses you too, you know," Bran sighed, his arms full of scrolls. "She tries not to show it, but she does."

"I wonder how much she'll miss me when she leaves again," Gendry spat, and instantly he felt guilty. It wasn't Bran's fault, and he did not deserve Gendry's bad mood.

But when Gendry looked up, Bran didn't look put out, but sympathetic.

"I pray to the gods everyday that she doesn't," Bran said softly. "I know we all don't want her to, you more than anyone. And I know that she knows this too. She loves you, Gendry. One of these days she'll return and never leave again."

"Yes," Gendry sighed, feeling hollow. "But when?"

**Oh and a thank you to RavenGreenMoon, who asked to be my beta, and now, thanks to her, I sound educated**


	10. The blue flowers in the snow

**Arya**

The ground was cracked and cold, but there was a warm glint to the frost. The sun shone brighter than it had in years, glowing against the sparkling ice, dusting everything in a golden sigh of light. '_With such beauty it's easy to forget how ugly everything is', _Arya thought to herself as she walked through the woods, the whispers of snow fall and early hour making everything silent. The only sounds were their crunching feet and icy breath.

It had taken the maester a whole month to let her out of Winterfell's walls, and whenever she did leave, it felt like she was transcending into paradise. Even the most familiar places were a whole new world, full of new discoveries. Everything changed out here, and yet stayed the same. She lived for these walks in the woods.

But, of course, she would not be allowed to go without a companion; and who better to tag along than Gendry? She had been unsurprised and pleased when he had offered his services readily. She had thought it would be nice, to have some time with him all to herself. She enjoyed Lawna's company immensely, more than she would hardly let on, but it wasn't the same. She missed having her blacksmith all to herself.

Or, rather, she _had_ missed having him all to herself. When they started their short and slow walks through the forest, Arya had hoped that it would be like it always was. In fact, she hadn't hoped, she had expected it to be. Pleasant walks and conversations, laughing together and teasing each other just like they always had. But, to her surprise, her companion was far from a laughing mood. In fact, Gendry hardly talked at all.

Even now he walked in silence, as he had for weeks now, leaving Arya confused to as what she had done to draw him into such a brooding state. At first, she had racked her brain for something, anything that she might have said, and came up with nothing. Perhaps it was their fight, but she had thought they had resolved that by now. No, it must be something else. But what?

What had she done?

"It looks like spring's finally on its way," she said, her voice cracking from lack of use. It seemed to ring five times louder than normal in the stillness of the forest.

Gendry grunted.

"Winterfell's beautiful in the summer," Arya went on, looking at Gendry, who was refusing to look at her, bundled up to the nose in furs. "Remember those little blue flowers that Lawna and I found the other day? They grow all over the place in the summer."

Gendry flinched but didn't say anything. He merely walked forward alongside her, his hands shoved beneath his furs for warmth. Arya sighed. It was time to confront whatever was nagging at him.

"Have I said something?" She demanded. "Or done something?"

"No," Gendry snapped, his first word of the day.

"And by no you mean yes," Arya snapped right back. "I know you when you're like this. You're upset about something-"

"I'm not upset," he cut across her.

"Yes you are," Arya countered right back, "and I think I have a right to know why."

Gendry didn't respond. He merely scowled at the forest. Frustrated, Arya ceased walking.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I'm not moving another inch until you stop brooding and tell me what's wrong," Arya declared.

"I'm not brooding," he said sourly, kicking at some snow.

"Stop acting like a child," Arya shot back, annoyed. "How can I possibly make it right with you if I don't know what I did wrong?"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Gendry waved her off, but she could tell he was lying.

"Then why are you being so insufferable?" She cried out.

"Begging your pardon, milady, I never meant to displease you," Gendry spat, his voice mocking.

Arya felt as though she had been slapped.

"Stop it!" She yelled. "Stop being such an ass! It's not fair! I've done nothing wrong-"

"You've done nothing wrong?" Gendry repeated, choking out an angry laugh. "_You_... No... Oh no of course you haven't done anything! Not Lady Stark!"

"I'm going back to Winterfell," Arya said, tears stinging her eyes. "I don't want to hurt the baby."

"You say that now," Gendry said darkly, "but what happens when it's born? What happens when you place it in my arms and leave again?"

Arya blinked, shocked. It wasn't Gendry's anger that surprised her. That she understood wholeheartedly, and expected. What surprised her was the fact that she hadn't wanted to, or even thought about, leaving in weeks. A month or so, if she really thought about it. It had never even crossed her mind.

She opened and closed her mouth, the words in her head not really making their way to her mouth. She wanted so badly to tell him that she hadn't thought of leaving in ages. That she didn't want to leave. She wanted to stay.

But for some reason the words wouldn't come out.

"Arya! Gendry!"

They both gave a start and turned around to see a huffing Jon and a scrambling Lawna running towards them.

"What's this?" Arya said as Lawna all but ran into her, the child gasping for breath. "I thought you were learning your letters."

"She was," Jon puffed, his face flushed, "but she wouldn't sit still and... Well.. I decided that it might be easier if we called it a day."

He looked exhausted despite the early hour.

"I'm sorry," Lawna gushed out at once. "I just wanted to see if we could find those flowers again Lady Stark. They were so beautiful, do you remember Father?"

Gendry didn't say anything.

"Perhaps we should conclude our walk," Arya offered. "I'm a bit tired for flower searching."

Lawna didn't look upset in the least. She just beamed up at Arya.

"On that note," Jon said, "I think I'll leave you. I've got some business back at Winterfell."

Arya sighed. She hated Jon to leave her alone with an angry and hurt Gendry, but she wasn't entirely selfish, and it was obvious Jon was exhausted.

"Thank you Jon," she said, taking the little girl's hand, and they turned and continued to walk.

It was a silent affair on Gendry's part. Lawna prattled on and on and on about the history she had learned, and the songs Lady Sansa had started to teach her, but Arya, though try as she might, barely heard her. All she could seem to do was try to catch Gendry's eye, but he would have none of it. He didn't even raise his head.

They neared the farm, but it appeared that the inhabitants were inside, their shutters closed and all the animals put in their proper places.

"It's because Ruben's sister's ill," Lawna said, and for the first time Arya saw her give the house a sad look that was beyond her years. "It's been bad, she's been sick so long..."

Arya gave Lawna's hand a squeeze, and Lawna brushed her tears away.

"She is your best friend?" Arya pressed.

"No," Lawna sighed. "But she's good, and I like her ever so much."

"She might pull through yet," Gendry said gruffly, putting a hand on Lawna's shoulder.

"I just don't want Ruben to be sad," Lawna said in a small voice. "I said some mean things to him, and now I've made him sadder."

"Don't worry," Arya said, running a hand through her daughter's thick black hair, "you can always apologize. He'd like that, I think."

"Aye, that he would," Gendry echoed, and Arya wondered, for a split second, if they were still talking about the farmer's boy.

"Perhaps when it's a better time we'll go and you can talk to him," Arya said gently.

"All right," Lawna sniffed. There was a long pause. "I just... I don't want him to think he's alone."

Arya gave a sharp intake of breath. Something about the words that Lawna said, and the way she said them made her think about Gendry, and that night that she had left. The night they had held Lawna close to them, and he had told her he loved her.

And she had been too afraid to say it back. And she was still too afraid.

"He's not alone," Gendry said for her, and in that moment he looked up at Arya, meeting her eyes.

And then, slowly, tentatively, she reached out and took his hand as well.

**Thank you for your reviews!**


	11. The arrival of the baby

**Warning?: There's a birth scene in here. It's not grisly or gory or anything, but I felt like I should give proper warning. **

**Jon**

It had been one of Arya's longest visits. Months, really; and yet it seemed like days. Every moment Jon could feel it, a tension, a fear, that one morning they would all wake up and she would be gone. He saw it in Sansa's careful stitching, in Bran's furrowed brow and in Rickon as well. But, Jon knew, it was most prevalent in Gendry. He tried to hide it, but Jon could see. He did not want Arya to go with such a fierceness that it affected him in everything. Every moment Gendry was with Arya, every hug, or word they spoke to one another, he acted like that was to be their last. Jon often wondered if it was.

The only person who seemed fully confident that Arya would stay was Lawna. It drove Gendry to distraction, her assuredness, and brought a sadness to Jon. If Arya were to leave... It would crush the little girls soul.

"But she won't leave," Lawna insisted during one of their early morning lessons; something Jon had agreed to so that Arya and Gendry might have some time alone. "I know she won't."

"Your faith in Lady Stark is commendable, Lawna, truly-"

"How can you expect her stay when everyone believes she will leave?" Lawna angrily cut across him. "It's not fair!"

She had a point. A rare shade of wisdom for a soon to be seven-year-old.

"I suppose you're right," Jon had relented, "but if Lady Stark was to leave..."

"She won't," Lawna said with an uncharacteristic fierceness. Jon sighed and let it go. There was no talking her out of it, and he supposed that some lessons needed to be learned the hard way.

But all the same, he hoped fiercely that Arya could see how attached her little girl was becoming to her. Before, Lawna had adored her, almost worshiped her even, but it had been a adoration from afar. Arya had been something like a god or a distant relative. Something untouchable. But now... Now she was becoming her mother, and once made, that bond could never truly be broken.

"She adores you," Jon had said to Arya one day whilst they were breaking their fast.

"As I do her," Arya had said. "Look, isn't it lovely? She made it for me on our last walk."

She held up a half-wilted crown of flowers and grass for Jon to see. It was messy, to be sure, but when Arya placed it on her head, it fit almost perfectly with her wild, tangled hair.

_I'll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass,_

_ But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass._

Arya laughed as Jon joined in with her for the last line. It was a genuine laugh, a true laugh, and there was actual merriment in her eyes.

"Don't hurt her, Arya," Jon said, his merriment vanishing as he stood from the table, having finished his meal.

Arya took the crown from her head, running her fingers over the flowers as though they were her child's hair, her eyes elsewhere. Jon left her there, with her crown and her thoughts, though he wondered now if he ought to have. Perhaps he should have waited for her to say something. Or perhaps she would not have said anything at all.

Now, however, the maester had strictly advised that Arya not go for her walks, no matter how much she protested. Her stomach had swollen to a point where she could barely even walk correctly, and, the maester had confided in Jon, her time was coming.

"I expect the babe to make an appearance any day now," he had said, so Jon and Sansa had been quick to make preparations for everything to run smoothly.

"It's going to be a boy!" Lawna chirped one warm morning when Arya had called her and Gendry to her room.

"And what makes you think that, my maiden of blue flowers?" Arya said, ruffling the girl's dark black hair.

"I just know," Lawna said proudly. Arya smiled, but there was no smile on Gendry's face. A shadow had fallen over him, and Jon knew that he was already reconciling himself to the loss of Arya.

And then, one morning as the snow began to melt, it happened. Or, rather, it began to happen.

"I think I'm feeling the child," Arya had said that morning at breakfast, her hand on her stomach. And then she had stood bolt upright, nearly dislodging the table, and Jon instantly saw why. There was a puddle of water at her feet.

They had sent her straight to her room, throwing the shutters open for air and had called for Gendry and Lawna. The first few hours were mild. Arya said she hardly felt any pain, and the babe hardly made a stirring, as was normal with births. But, as the sun began to set, Arya started wincing more and more, until she began to cry out and groan every ten minutes or so.

"It's coming," she gasped, and Jon promptly scooped Lawna up in his arms and whisked her from the room, depositing her in Sansa's arms.

When he returned, just to say a few things to Arya before he left again, Gendry was at her side, their hands clasped together. The maester was there, along with the septa, as well as a variety of other servants. What their purpose was Jon did not know. He knew little of birthing.

"I'll be outside," he said to Arya, clasping her shoulder.

"No," she gasped, her face screwed up with discomfort. "No, Jon, I want you here."

Jon grimaced. He wasn't sure he _wanted_ to be there. Hearing her scream and swear outside the door was enough for him, but her eyes were pleading.

"Please."

"Oh all right," Jon grumbled, going to stand as far away from the base of the bed as possible.

Gendry gave him what appeared to be a sympathetic look. Or perhaps it was gratefulness. Once Arya started shouting, he really couldn't tell.

The real labor didn't start for another hour or so, and when it did Jon really wished that he had stayed outside. Arya's screaming was enough to drive him to insanity, the pain in her shrieks ringing sharply in his bones. For a good twenty minutes, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the noise, but it was no use.

When he opened them again, he saw Arya, coated with sweat and gasping, giving another raging roar of pain. But then, when the pain appeared to subside for a moment, she turned her head, and Jon noticed, for what seemed to be the first time, that Gendry was still holding her hand, and talking to her.

His face wasn't calm or placid, but there was a fierce determination there, and as Arya cried out and gripped his hand again, he did not retract his hold, nor stop whatever words he was saying. Instead, he reached out and gently stroked a bit of her hair away from her face.

Jon felt a bit of embarrassment rush through him. _What kind of man are you? _He thought to himself. _This is your sister, you've seen and heard much worse. Stop closing your eyes and sniveling like a little boy._

Summoning up his courage, he strode over to Arya and took her other hand in his. Through her fevered state she looked up at him and smiled, giving his hand a squeeze. A squeeze which turned into a bone-crunching death grip.

Jon didn't know if he regretted his decision or not for those long hours while Arya labored. They were certainly the longest hours of his life, and one's that were very trying indeed. Arya screamed and swore and cried and begged, and all the while Gendry was there, saying something, and then, finally, as the babe was beginning to push through, Jon understood what it was he was saying. He wasn't saying anything. He was singing.

_My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I'll lay you down,_

_ I'll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown._

_ For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord._

_ I'll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword._

Arya screamed again, and Jon, just to distract himself really, began to sing along in whispers.

_And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree, _

_ She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me._

_ I'll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass,_

_ But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass._

And then it wasn't Arya who was screaming, but a child. A newborn, pink, and bloodied child, wailing loud enough to wake the dead in the crypts below.

"Oh thank god," Jon said weakly, feeling Arya's iron grip finally relaxing, causing much needed blood to rush to his hand.

Arya was breathing heavily, but she turned, and Jon saw Gendry take their entwined hands and plant a gentle kiss on hers.

"A baby boy!" The maester declared.

"Lawna was right," Arya gasped, an exhausted smile on her face. "She'll be so pleased."

"Maybe you should let her name it," Jon joked.

"Heavens no," Arya said with a raspy laugh. "This one I'm naming myself."

**One more chapter plus an epilogue and then this fic is done.**


	12. Naming him Ned

**Arya**

Arya felt like she could sleep for years. There had been many a countless night that she had lain awake, her eyes open, her hands clutched in a bloodied prayer, the ghosts of all she had lost haunting the caverns of her empty mind. Years she had been unable to sleep, properly sleep, with dreams that did not drown her or send her bolting awake. It was in Gendry's arms that she had learned what it was like to dream again.

It was in Gendry's arms that she lay now, her entire body aching and her head swimming with exhaustion. Yet she would not sleep. She could not let herself sleep. Not with the tiny wonder in her arms, keeping her there, transfixed, as its wide eyes drifting closed. The infant would sleep, but she would not.

"He's beautiful," Lawna said, nuzzled into Arya's side. She reached out delicate fingers to brush away thin strands of black hair from the babe's face. "Isn't he Mother?"

_Mother_. The words faded in Arya's mind, and yet they stayed there, lingering. This was the first time she had called Arya what she really was. It was also the first time that being called 'mother' didn't fill Arya will fear and foreboding. Rather, it felt right, as though that was what she should have been calling her all along.

Next to her, Gendry shifted, and Arya could tell he was looking at her, searching for her reaction. Looking for a sign of flight.

'_Have you no faith in me?' _She wanted to say. But then... She knew the answer to that, and it was deserved too. He'd hurt her once, when she needed him, and she was done trying to hurt him back. Her wounds would always far surpass his.

"He is," Arya sighed. "He looks like you, Gendry."

Gendry didn't say anything right away, but when she looked at him, his eyes looked misty.

"He's got your eyes, though," Gendry said after a few minutes. "I can tell."

"What are you going to name him, Mother?" Lawna asked, wriggling her finger between the babies soft pink ones.

"Ned," Arya said without missing a beat.

"After your father?" Gendry asked softly, and she could feel his fingers brush lightly against her forehead as he pushed some of her matted hair back.

"Yes," Arya felt a rush of unexpected tears brimming in her eyes. She wished her father was there now, to see the child named after him, and Lawna as well. _He would have loved them_, she thought sadly. _He would have wished they were not bastards, but he would have loved them all the same, as he did Jon._

A tear fell down her face.

"Are you sad?" Lawna asked, looking alarmed. "Don't be sad!"

"I'm not sad," Arya said, brushing away her tears. "I'm not sad little one. How can I be sad with you by my side?"

She ran her fingers through Lawna's hair and then ruffled it, like Jon used to do when she was little. Poor Jon. He looked rather green when he finally got to leave the room.

"Good," Lawna said, curling closer to Arya. "I don't want you to ever be sad again."

Arya smiled, looking down at Lawna, whose face was turned away from her, hidden behind a heap of wild and tangled hair. It wasn't long before the little girl's breathing became long and deep, and she drifted off to sleep along with her baby brother.

Arya found herself staring at the babe again, so peaceful and content. Beautiful, like the child curled into her side. _They need me, _she thought to herself, _and I need them._

Gendry's hand reached out and gently, ever so gently, he ran his fingers over their newborn's head.

She turned to look at him, only to find him looking at her. His eyes were such a searing blue, even in the dim light, but she saw it there; the questioning. _He wants to know how long this will last._

Arya sighed, their newborn son in her arms and their daughter nestled into her side, and she knew the answer as though she had known it all along.

"I love you," she said.

**And that's the end! Well, I mean, there's an epilogue because I love epilogues, but this is the official end.**


	13. Nine years later

**Lawna**

Lawna sighed, breathing in the salty air. It was so queer. She could actually _taste_ the salt on her tongue, as though she was eating it. Even with her eyes closed, she could tell where she was. Beneath her, coarse sand squeezed between her toes while water rushed over her feet, trailing the sand with it. To her right and left the sand stretched out almost as far as the eye could see, and in the distance there were cliffs. Behind her, her brothers and little sister were screaming like heathens, probably still flinging seaweed at each other. But it was what was before Lawna that she liked best of all.

The sea.

It stretched for leagues and leagues and leagues. All beautiful, lapping water. It was so blue, even in the glowing light of the setting sun. The blue of her father's eyes, her eyes. This was where her father came from, she knew, from the sea and the sand and the South. He was a Waters, and she was a Snow.

Her mother hated the South, but she had come anyway, at Lawna's begging. Of course, Ned and Jon and Nymeria had all begged as well, and that had helped loads.

"They might not be Stark's in name," her uncle Jon had joked, "but they're just as determined as you lot ever were; maybe even more so. The wolf blood runs in them yet."

"Ours is the fury!" Nymeria had shouted gleefully.

"No," Lawna corrected her sister with a frown; she was always correcting Nymeria. "Those are Baratheon words. Stark words are 'winter is coming.'"

"Then why the blazes do you lot want to go South?" Her mother had grumbled. Her mother liked the North best of all.

"To see where father lived!" Ned had cried.

"It's a rotten place," their mother had warned them.

"How could the sea be rotten?" Lawna had demanded. "Father said it was beautiful, and you said it looked like his eyes."

Finally her mother had relented to a very short holiday of four days. However, had Lawna realized what traveling would be like, with her three younger siblings and the babe, well... She might not have begged so much to go.

But she was glad they went. Fearfully glad. It gave her time to think, or rather, to try not to think. She dreaded going back home.

It wouldn't have been so bad if she had _expected_ it; but honestly, it had come out from no where! One minute, she and Ruben were teasing each other, insulting each other like they always did, and the next he was taking her hand.

She had been surprised to say the least.

"I don't want you to go," he had said, and for the first time Lawna realized that his hair wasn't dirty brown, it was cinnamon, like his sisters, but lighter, and his eyes had gold flecks in them.

"It's only for a few days, stupid," Lawna had sputtered, her mind spinning in confusion. "I'll be back soon, if my brothers don't kill me first."

Ruben looked bashful, and she blinked in surprise when she realized he was blushing.

"What if you meet some rich fish merchant or something?" He had said, not letting go of her hand and kicking the dirt.

"Don't be stupid," Lawna had laughed at that. "I'm not going to run off with some fish merchant and forget you."

She nearly screamed when she had said that. Her wording was all wrong. She hadn't meant it like-

But every thought was wiped clean from her mind, because he had leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. It was a small kiss, and when he pulled back she almost felt disappointed, like she wished there had been more.

That was the point where she had dropped his hand and bolted.

"Say goodbye to your sister for me!" She had called over her shoulder, leaving him standing there in the fields like an idiot, all alone, his eyes questioning. That wasn't fair, she shouldn't have done that. What should she have done?

Now, it was all she could think about.

What if he wanted to marry her? The thought terrified her. Or did it? Suddenly, she was remembering a lot of things about Ruben that she should have noticed. Like how he went from gawky and awkward to tall and lanky, the work in the fields finally having a positive affect on his build. And then there was his hair and his eyes to consider, and himself.

But they had always teased one another! Surely there was another girl she had seen him with! Oh yes, Anabelle, that cow eyed little insipid thing that had called her a bastard. But then Ruben had jumped to her defense, and she never saw Anabelle again. Could it be... Could it be possible that he had really liked her all along? Like a man liked a woman? And that she had been too blind to see it?

She was a girl of fifteen, a woman grown actually, come to think of it. She was a girl no more, but she was also a bastard, and though she was pretty, she hadn't had many, if any, suitors. Maybe Ruben just liked her because he pitied her. The thought made her strangely sad.

"What are you thinking about with such difficulty?"

Lawna turned to see her father coming to stand beside her, his towering build nearly dwarfing her in it's shadow. Her father might have looked imposing, but he was far from it. She loved him more than anything. Well... Maybe not more than anything. She loved her mother as well, and her siblings, though she'd never let her brothers know.

"Has Nymeria been bothering you again?" Her father asked, smiling.

"No," Lawna said grumpily.

"I thought I saw you stalk away when she threw seaweed on you," her father said, and he sounded like he was trying not to laugh, "or was that someone else?"

"She's such a baby," Lawna snapped. "She's seven, she should be acting more grown up!"

"You used to like playing around," her father said. "Not three months ago I saw you stuff your brother's furs with snow."

That had been fun.

"Well maybe I don't anymore," Lawna said haughtily. "I'm a woman grown, you know."

"So you are," her father said, as if just realizing it. "But even women grown have fun. Just look at your mother."

Lawna looked around to see her mother try to swat Ned with seaweed while still holding the baby in her arms.

"Lady Sansa would never play with seaweed, or put sand in people's beds," Lawna objected. Her father laughed at this.

"No, that she wouldn't," he agreed. "But that's not what's bothering you, is it? Even since we left Winterfell you've been troubled. Are you homesick?"

"No! It's RUBEN!"

Lawna whipped around to see her little brother, Ned, making kissing noises in the background.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Lawna shrieked. Ned grinned.

"Yes you do! I saw you talking the other day!" He crooned. "He gave you a kiss! Right on the mouth!"

"He did _what?_" Her father roared.

"No he didn't!" Lawna cried, alarmed. "You're a liar!"

"You want to marry him!" Ned sang. "You want to make babies with him! Lots and lots of them!"

"No I don't!" Lawna was near tears now she was so embarrassed.

"_Lawna loves a smelly farmer's boy, they kissed in the fields!_" Ned sang. He was always coming up with songs. The little shit. "_And he said, 'will you marry me?' and she said, 'oh yes I will'!"_

"SHUT UP!" Lawna roared, racing from the water. Ned gave a squawk of fear and ran, but he kept singing. Her other siblings joined in as well, all giggling. Nymeria and Jon were twins, and did everything together. If Ned was teasing Lawna, Nymeria and Jon would join him. If Lawna was putting soup in Ned's boots, they were right there beside her. The two-faced little demons.

"_Lawna loves a smelly farmer's boy, they kissed in the fields! He said, 'will you marry me?' and she said, 'oh yes I will'_!"

"Stop it!" Lawna cried, tears stinging in her eyes. "Stop it all of you!"

"_Lawna-_"

"Now that's _enough_!" Her mother swatted Ned about the ear and he fell silent at once. "Go play now, you've tormented your sister quite enough for one day."

They all let out a sigh of protest, but did not cross her. When Lawna's mother said something, it was the law, and the gods protect anyone who tried to cross her. Everyone in Westeros knew how good she was with a blade.

"Come on Lawna," her mother said, taking her hand, "let's you, your father, and I have ourselves a talk."

Lawna suddenly felt frightened.

"I didn't kiss Ruben, honestly!" She lied at once. She didn't want him to get in trouble.

"Of course you did," her mother said, "and it's about time too. I was beginning to think the boy was soft."

"You knew?" Her father demanded, looking far less nonchalant than her mother.

"I suspected," her mother corrected him. "It was obvious."

"It was?" Lawna was shocked, as well as her father.

"Gendry," her mother said, turning to her father, "didn't they remind you of how we were as children?"

Her father frowned. He obviously hadn't thought of that.

"But she's far too young for marriage," he protested.

"I don't want to get married," Lawna cut in quickly. "I mean... I don't know if I want to. He hasn't asked me."

"Oh good," her father said, sounding relieved.

"She's a woman grown, Gendry," her mother pointed out, "and only a year or so younger than I was when we met as a man and a woman."

Lawna felt her cheeks turned bright hot. Sometimes she wished her parents had married. Most times, really. It would make a whole lot of things easier. But ladies couldn't marry bastards, or outlawed knights either. It didn't matter, not _really_. They were still a family.

Her father looked uncomfortable too.

"There's no mention of that!" Lawna said hastily, alarmed. "I'm not sure if I even like him yet."

"You aren't?" Her mother asked, raising an eyebrow.

Lawna swallowed hard. She wasn't sure. She wasn't sure about these new feelings, and they scared her.

"A farmer's boy?" Her father asked, sounding skeptical.

"He's a good person!" Lawna objected at once. "And he can read! I taught him!"

Her parents both looked at her, and she had a feeling she had just answered her mother's question.

"I suppose it's the best I could ask for," her father said with a resigned shrug. "She'll live so close."

"And he'll treat her well," her mother said.

"Aye, and if he doesn't-"

"I'll deal with him myself."

"He just kissed me," Lawna said weakly. "We're not getting married!"

"Your mother just shoved me once," her father said, a knowing look in his eye, "and we've had five children."

Lawna gulped. She'd shoved Ruben loads of times. She wondered how many children that equaled. Strangely, Lawna thought as she turned to look back out over the lapping waves, she didn't seem to mind.

**The end =**


End file.
